Much Ado About Everything
by Moonlit Aria
Summary: After years of suffering, Harry and friends conspire together in a plot to trick Ron and Hermione into expressing their feelings. [ Based on Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing; PG-13 for language and some sexuality. ] ** Completed **
1. Of Socks and Misspellings

  
**--** Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, unfortunately. If I did, I'd be rich and doing something a lot more interesting than sitting at my computer at 1:30 in the morning.**  
  
-- **Author's Note: This will be a very long-running story based from the play written by William Shakespeare (_Much Ado About Nothing_), more-so the theatrical version directed by (and starring) Kenneth Branagh. _Much Ado About Nothing_ was one of the few romantic comedies Shakespeare ever wrote (with, of course, a twist of drama and angst), so I'm hoping that a fic based on it will go over well! Thank to Josh, Jude (and her caged Defiant!Draco), and all the rabid plot bunnies running around this place.  
  
  


**Much Ado About Everything**

  


  
  


"I'm beginning to suspect that they're plotting against us, Ron," Hermione whispered across the table situated in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, eyes shifting towards the other side of the room after she spoke, indicating she was speaking of someone in the general direction.  
  
Ron, who was less than graceful, tactful, and just about anything which helped to assemble someone subtle, turned directly around to look in the direction Hermione motioned to.  
  
"No, don't look now -- " she attempted to halt him, but it was too late. Across the room, Harry (who had left the table several minutes before) was speaking in hushed whispers to Ginny, Parvati, Lavender, Dean, Seamus, and several of the younger students Hermione didn't want to even _begin_ to place. At intervals, Harry would motion to the table at which Ron and Hermione were doing their Potions work for the next brewing day ... and, annoyingly, Ginny would giggle.  
  
"What gives?" Ron inquired, turning back to his only just begun work, his attention drifting towards Hermione's paper as her gaze was fixed on the happenings of across the room. Hurriedly, he copied down the list of ingredients from her parchment, immediately going back to looking dumbstruck with confusion when her attention refocused to the table they were sharing.  
  
Hermione, noticing that suddenly Ron had finished a good deal of work than he had completed before she looked away, sighed and rolled her eyes. "Ronald Weasley, I've been telling you for the past six years -- and I'll tell you again _now_ -- that copying homework will get you _nowhere_! What, pray tell, will you ever do if I purposefully left a fake list of potion ingredients out for you to copy? Someday, your cauldron will blow up in your face and you _might_ learn your lesson!"  
  
"Like I would copy from _you_!" he yelled across the table defensively, although he was defending a _lie_. "You always assume the worst, you know. It's always _me_ copying, not me working hard enough to get something _done_ on time. Thanks, Hermione, I'm glad you have _confidence_ in me!"  
  
Hermione let out a lengthy sigh of frustration and snapped her textbook for Potions closed loudly. "Honestly, Ron, when are you going to _grow up_? Anyone with half a working brain could see you copied the list of ingredients from mine -- they're in the same order and you misspelled the same word I was just looking up!" Having caught him in nothing less than a nasty, argument-spurring _lie_, she had little choice but to pick up her various books, quills, rolls of parchment, and inkwells and move up swiftly to the girl's dormitory.  
  
  
"See, this is what I'm talking about," Harry said quite distinctly, though not with the intention of being overheard by either of the two in question. "_Something_ needs to be done. They've been driving me crazy like this for years."  
  
Ginny glanced towards her elder brother, Ron, who had began to sulk at the table once Hermione left. Though, she could not exactly tell if he was sulking over her exit from the common room or the fact that he had been caught red-handed copying homework and now every Gryffindor within earshot knew. Turning a face contorted partially in concern and partially in humor, she inquired to Harry, "Well, what're we supposed to do, lock them in a closet and let them kill each-other? That seems to be where they're headed anyway."  
  
"I think both of them are missing the point, Gin'. They're _crazy_ about each other and I won't stand for their insanity driving _me_ insane anymore!" The last part turned some heads of Gryffindors not included in the conversation, causing Harry to shrink back into his seat a tad. "We just need to figure out a way to make _them_ realize it. And soon. If I have to hear Ron bitching over Hermione one more time -- "  
  
" -- I second that!" Dean announced, "I didn't get any sleep the other night after they were arguing about, what was it? A belt?"  
  
" ... Socks," Seamus corrected miserably. "If you think they'd stop arguing when they're _together_, I'm all for it. Less arguing means less bitching which means more sleep for his roommates."  
  
Parvati Patil, who had been quite silent throughout the entire conversation, suddenly looked rather gleeful about something, a mischievous glint sparkling vividly within her dark eyes. "I went to see a play over the summer holiday with my sister -- "  
  
"You went to a play?" Lavender inquired softly, though not without a tinge of typical girlish curiosity which caused her to further ask, "What did you wear?"  
  
Parvati, vaguely annoyed by the interruption, shook her head. "Nevermind that. Anyway, this was a _Shakespearean _play. The man and the woman _hate_ each other, right? Well, their friends conspire to make them fall in love by tricking them each into believing the other loves them -- so they both end up falling in love with the other, thinking that the other had fallen in love with them first. Follow me?"  
  
The males of the group merely stared in confusion, while Ginny, Lavender, and a select few others of the female sex grinned broadly. "Look," Parvati snapped at the boys, "You go somewhere where Ron's likely to show up and when he walks by, start talking loudly about how Hermione confessed her love for him, but begged you not to tell him, because she's too afraid of his reaction."  
  
Harry, Seamus, and Dead nodded in unison, then gave each-other looks as the wheels in each of their heads began to turn.  
  
"Then, we'll go to some place where Hermione's likely to show up and start talking about how we overhead Ron professing his love of her to Harry, but claimed he could never tell her, fearing she'd reject him due to his past behavior," Parvati continued, rubbing her hands together as a broad grin curved her lips. "After that, we just have to wait. Understand?"  
  
There were several nods of agreement from the group, before all sets of eyes turned towards the stairs leading up to the girl's dormitories then over to the table at which Ron was sitting. In a most uncanny way, all the faces of those conspiring in the 'plot' against the two aforementioned brightened with grins of pure mischief and delight.


	2. A Fascination with Sleeping Portraits

  
  


It was one of the harshest arguments he had ever had with Hermione -- it didn't simply die, for some reason, after the night in the common room. Instead, it erupted again in the library two days later when she made a comment about him doing his own work, which in turn sent him into a sort of flurry of insults towards her. By the time it was all said and done, Madam Pince had tossed them both out of the library on their arses and Hermione refused to even _look_ at him (let alone speak to him). Though, that was fine, as if he wanted to talk to _her_, anyway.  
  
A week passed, then another, going well into a third, while all they did was argue. After three days of classes, it proved impossible _not_ to speak to each-other when and if they were paired for work in Charms or Defense Against the Dark Arts, making the conversation in both classes short, to the point, and about as rude as a person could get in front of Professor Flitwick or Figg without incurring some sort of rarely seen wraith and subsequent detention for excessive use of the word 'bitch' or 'prat.' Thus, the rude (or, as the Ravenclaws from Charms described _downright offensive to the senses_) 'conversing' moved steadily away from the classroom until it turned to snippets of belittling down the corridors or jabs back and forth in the common room or insults hurled over the Gryffindor table at breakfast.  
  
It was the longest running argument they had ever had -- pulling ahead of what was known as the "Viktor Krum incident" from years past in the race. Ron, however, had soon forgotten the fact that _he_ had started the argument and that _he_ continued the argument, instead of simply admitting that he was _wrong_ for copying her homework. Instead, he came to embrace the truth that Hermione had purposefully embarrassed him in front of half the Gryffindors and was not letting go of the argument simply because she wanted to have the last word -- which, of course, he would not allow.  
  
Ron did not win his biggest victory until sometime during the fourth week of nonstop bickering between the two of them. During the last several minutes of Herbology with the Hufflepuffs, during which he, Harry, and Hermione were cleaning around the area in which they had re-potted at least ten Alihotsy plants, something between the two of them had sparked another of a series of rows which had been going on all day. Hermione shot him an insult having something to do with his inability to do his own school work, threatening to embarrass him in front of the Hufflepuffs much the same way she had done in the common room weeks earlier, which caused him to burst at the seams with an insult that had been boiling within him for some time.  
  
Although he had no idea what sort of insult slipped from his lips, it caused Hermione to stare wildly at him in shock for several minutes, during which he noticed tears welling in her eyes, before simply storming out of the greenhouse completely. Professor Sprout, thoroughly taken aback to the point of catatonic shock, managed to come to from the incident before everyone else, promptly rewarding Ron with a trip to detention -- for excessive use of expletives. Harry, the second to blink away the aftereffects of sheer shock (which had also caused him to drop a perfectly good potted Alihotsy plant) managed to whisper, "Ron, really, _that _was uncalled for."  
  
Whatever he had said really hadn't been his fault, as he couldn't remember saying anything past 'annoying, stuck-up, know-it-all.' "_What_?" he demanded of Harry as they left the greenhouse. "What did I say?"  
  
Harry, who had hefted Hermione's abandoned bag from the greenhouse floor, looked as if he were about to die from the excess weight of half the library on his shoulder. It took him a moment, but he finally replied, "The much sanitized version? You called her: _an annoying, stuck-up, know-it-all overbearing cow who was better off with her bushy head stuck in some book than spouting useless Hogwarts: A History information at people who couldn't give a rat's arse about anything she had to say_."  
  
Ron stopped dead in his tracks, looking quite pale upon hearing the _sanitized_ version of what he had just gotten detention for -- though, more importantly, what he had said to _Hermione_. For a brief moment, he felt a sharp pang of guilt in the back of his mind, a tiny voice tucked away in the same spot yelping: _how could you say something like that to her? Prat!_ Yet, another part of his brain told him to shrug it off. "She deserved it, Harry," he finally, defensively, announced, that larger and more booming part of his brain telling him he was in the right on this subject. "She's said worse to me. Look what she said in front of all the Gryffindors!"  
  
Harry squirmed like a worm on a hook at Ron's defensive statements, still not willing to fully take any sides in this argument, though both had attempted to persuade him to do so. "Look, Ron, I'm going to take her bag to her," Harry started, but immediately became nervous under the heated look from his friend. "Well, you know how she gets without her homework. She'd blame it on you if she didn't get her work in on time," he attempted to rationally explain his actions.  
  
"She blames everything on me, anyway!" Ron retorted heatedly. "You'd think the way she acts, I'm the one who enslaved the House Elves or caused You-Know-Who to rise again -- _oh_. Sorry, Harry. But, you know what I mean!"  
  
"_Still_," Harry said, after recovering from the mention of Voldemort's rise, glancing over his shoulder for a moment. It was beginning to look like weeks of planning would have to be paused for a day, due to the fact that the new row had thoroughly thrown things off. Nevertheless, he would attempt to salvage things as best as he could. "Look, I'll go give her the bag, then meet you in the Great Hall for dinner," he offered, with hopes of still going through with the arranged plan.  
  
Ron was quite confused by the suggestion, as it was still early for dinner, but agreed nevertheless -- as long as he avoided Hermione for some time, he would be safely away from more arguments and able to avoid apologizing as the back of his mind was suggesting. "All right, mate, no problem. See you, then."  
  
  
Harry, however, never showed up for dinner. After refilling his plate three times and subsequently clearing it three times, Ron eventually grew weary of waiting for his lightening-scarred colleague and rose from the table to leave the hall. He passed his younger sister on the way, who was giggling with a group of girls which included Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown -- strange company, he thought -- who all seemed to be submerged in whispered speech as if they were all in on a secret to which none else were privy. After tossing an odd look in the group's generally direction, he moved out of the dining hall and started up the grand staircase across the expanse of the large, adjoining room.  
  
"It happened just now," Ron heard Harry's voice from one of the first floor corridors as he ascended the large set of stairs. "I went to give her the bag she left in Herbology and she just broke down right then and there, _crying_."  
  
Curious, Ron changed his course and direction to steer him closer to the conversation, while at the same time remaining well out of view of the group Harry was talking to -- which, Ron noted, consisted merely of Dean and Seamus. Why wasn't _he_ invited? And, at that, why were they talking about _Hermione_?  
  
"What did she say?" the thick Irish accent of Seamus Finnigan inquired, a tinge of curiosity in his voice.  
  
Harry paused in his stroll down the corridor, leaning his back against the very edge of the wall which Ron was using as cover, still on the staircase, to eavesdrop on the conversation. "She said she loves him," he sighed out simply, as if the profession of love was something he, personally, found disheartening.  
  
"_Loves him_?" Seamus _and_ Dean echoed at the same time in disbelief (their voices expressing perfectly the look of confusion upon Ron's features). "They hate each other, Harry. It's going on _four solid weeks _of bickering between the two of them!" Dean continued in disbelief, at which time Ron's eyes widened with the realization that the three of them were talking about _him_ and Hermione. About how Hermione loved _him_.  
  
_Loved him_. Him. Ronald Weasley.  
  
"I know!" Harry exclaimed, sounding utterly dismayed, as if someone had just told him that they were down 150 points in a Quidditch match and had no hope of scoring enough points to win, even if he caught the Snitch. "You saw what happened in Herbology today, he got detention for what he said and she stormed off -- _crying_."  
  
There was a lingering silence between the three, during which Ron simply stared across the open expanse of the stairwell towards the paintings moving on the opposite wall. It wasn't true ... it _couldn't_ be true. Hermione _couldn't_ love _him_.  
  
"Was that all she said?" Seamus questioned quietly, almost embarrassed to be pressing for more information. "Just that she loved him?"  
  
"No," Harry answered quickly, sounding to be frowning by the tone of his voice. "She said that it was hell, the arguing. Those weren't her _exact _words, of course, but that was the gist of it. She told me that she had to tell someone, because it was killing her to keep it all bottled up."  
  
Dean broke in after a moment of silence, appearing to have the same problem as Seamus. "Should we tell him? I mean, did she want -- "  
  
"No!" Harry answered quickly again, not even waiting for the entire question to get out. "I asked her if she wanted me to tell him for her, after she said that she couldn't do it herself, but she _begged_ me not to. She said ... she'd _die_ if I told him. She'd _die_ if she told him. And what's worse, she'd _die_ if he asked her about it."  
  
Seamus and Dean were silent for a moment, during which Ron had to stare intently across at the paintings and concentrate on their doings, rather than the conversation for the moment, to prevent himself from leaping from behind the wall and asking Harry a million questions at once, the first of which being . . . _Really?_  
  
"So," Seamus said as he obviously attempted to work out Hermione's logic within his head. "She'd die if anyone ever told him and she'd die if he asked her out, anyway?"  
  
There was silence, during which Harry simply nodded, though Ron could not see this. Finally, the silence was broken as he spoke again, "I wish there was something we could do for her, really, instead of just _knowing_. But, she made me promise I wouldn't tell him. Now ... now, I don't know what to do."  
  
Ron felt exactly like Harry -- he knew, when he wasn't supposed to, and had no idea what to do. A million questions raced through his mind once more, making it harder and harder to refrain from giving himself away to ask them.  
  
Seamus broke the heavy silence that had settled over the three -- and threatened to give Ron, obviously, away, as he was apparently breathing heavily by that time -- by asking, "Well, I don't get it, Harry. If she loves him, right, why is she still going on with this argument?"  
  
"It's obvious, isn't it? She doesn't want him to know she loves him, so she keeps with the arguing, even though it's tearing her up inside."   
  
_Tearing her up inside?_ Ron thought to himself, biting at his lower lip as a pained expression came over his face. That little voice in the back of his mind had grown stronger with this news, nearly booming as loudly as what was obviously his ego, telling him to let up. Apologize.  
  
"What about Krum?" Dean questioned in a concerned tone while giving Harry a wink -- the subject of Viktor had been thrown in at the last minute, knowing what effect it would have upon Ron.  
  
"There was never much between the two of them," Harry informed his friend, knowingly, as Hermione had allegedly poured her soul out to him (which was why, of course, he had not been there at dinner). "She told me that she's _always_ cared for Ron and the last day of school that year, Krum asked her to go to Bulgaria with him over the summer, but ... " he trailed off, as he had began grinning to his two companions and did not want the action to bleed into his words.  
  
_But . . . ?_ Ron gripping at the railing to his right, on the edge of his seat (so to speak) in anticipation of the remainder of the statement. _But what!?_  
  
" . . . but, she told him her heart belonged to another: _Ron_," Harry finished after a silence long enough to _kill_ Ron with apprehension. After which, all three pretended to ignore the relieved sigh from behind the wall, which soon began to sound like a noise Peeves would make as the Weasley attempted to cover up his mistake without giving away his position.  
  
The three nearly burst out laughing at the noise from behind the wall, taking some time to recover before moving on. "_Anyway,_" Harry said pointedly. "Hermione claimed to have only spoken to him occasionally since. He even has a fiancée now."  
  
From behind the wall, there came the faintest sound of shoes thudding upon the stone floor and a stifled cheer. Again, it _must_ have been Peeves.  
  
"So, I don't know what to do, guys."  
  
Seamus gave a shrug, continuing down the corridor, "Don't do anything, mate. She confessed to you, right? So you have to keep your promise -- _don't tell him_. I feel sorry for her, yeah, but it's a promise."  
  
"I agree, Harry," Dean chimed in as they continued down the corridor and steadily out of Ron's range of hearing. "Poor Hermione," he sighed, though that was the last coherent words heard by the Weasley still in hiding.  
  
He stood there for quite some time, as if his eyes were glued to the paintings across the stairwell, simply letting all the information sink into his head. _Hermione loves me_, he thought at last after many moments of thinking nothing at all. _She confessed to Harry and told Viktor Krum her heart belonged to me_. _Me!_  
  
A great length of time passed while he stood there, noticing neither the students or Professors who passed, until it was well into the evening and Harry 'found' him there. Ron claimed to have been admiring the portraits on the opposite wall (though most of them were asleep by then) and dazedly walked with his friend back to the Gryffindor tower.  
  
_She loves me_.


	3. Façade is a Romantic Word

  
**--** Author's Note: The third installment, with which I will hope Good Ole Billy isn't rolling in his mysterious and unmarked grave because of. Thanks to everyone for the reviews so far (didn't expect them so terribly soon). The fourth chapter should be done very soon and, like all Shakespearean works, the _villain_ will be introduced, along with his evil plot to spoil the romantic comedy! Heh, I'll give you three guesses as to who it's going to be, but you'll only need one. ^__^;  
  
Thanks to Josh and Jude (_Finding Beauty_) for being the beta testers of this portion (and the ones before it) of the Much Ado About Everything.  
  
  
  
  
By the time Friday came around, Hermione was more confused than Norbert, the poor little dragon Hagrid had hatched and attempted to raise six years before, who was convinced the half-giant was his _mother_. For the past three weeks, she and Ron had been bickering on and off on a subject she had chosen to only back down on when Ron apologized for his behavior or pigs flew -- his _cheating_. It was one thing to glance over at Harry's paper in Charms (mainly because it wasn't _her_ paper), but a completely different situation when it came to him blatantly copying an entire list of ingredients she had spent over an hour preparing. That, Hermione came to a conclusion, was simply _uncalled for_.  
  
However, on Tuesday (the third day of their _fourth_ week of arguing, that is), something very strange, indeed, happened. During the last few minutes of Herbology, their bickering got completely out of hand and Ron gave her _the_ most hurtful insult he had managed to utter since their first year at Hogwarts. Of course, by the time that she had fled from the greenhouse (_slightly_ tearful, not sobbing as some people claimed later on), most of what he had said had completely escaped her memory ... though it was very difficult to suddenly forget the part about being an overbearing cow and no one caring what she had to say.  
  
Thus, after a brief tea with Hagrid, which _did_ serve to make her feel better, Hermione returned to the greenhouses to collect her forgotten bag, only to find out from Professor Sprout that Harry had taken it with him when he left (annoyingly, as if she would completely forget something_ that_ important) and Ron had received a hefty detention sentence for what he had said -- though more-so for his choice of words than merely insulting her. Nevertheless, Hermione was able to leave the greenhouses feeling a sense of justice welling within her, making it completely to the Gryffindor common room without running into the single person she would have paid a hundred Galleons not to speak to for a hundred years.  
  
Looking considerably more happy than nearly an hour before, she entered the common room to find Harry waiting (with Dean and Seamus) for her with her bag. He seemed quite nervous about something, kept checking his watch, then eventually left with his two roommates after they whispered to themselves for a moment. Although it was _very_ odd behavior, Hermione had more important things -- such as an essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts -- to worry over and went quietly to work at a table in the corner of the common room, undisturbed there for several hours.  
  
  
"Hermione -- " Ron managed to choke out from across the room when he entered, hurrying away from a very concerned looking Harry to stand just a few paces away from where she was working. " -- I just, uh, wanted to apologize," he went on, as she neither glanced up when he spoke her name nor even paused in her writing to acknowledge his presence, sounding almost _nervous_.  
  
After several more moments of writing (as it was in her interest, of course, to _make _him wait), Hermione _did_ look up, a slightly astonished look playing across her otherwise calm and collected features. "It took you long enough," she said simply, assuming he was there to apologize for the continual bickering of the past weeks.  
  
"It was a few hours ago, Hermione, and I -- "  
  
"_Oh_," she interrupted, going directly back to the books and parchment before her. "In that case, Ronald Weasley, I decline acceptance of your apology."  
  
"What?!" he demanded, then stiffened slightly, looking pained. "I mean, er, what do you want me to apologize for?"  
  
"I _wonder_."  
  
There was a lengthy pause, during which it was quite apparent he was shifting every bit of information about in his head -- much like the shifting of contents in an overly stuffed drawer -- to find the answer to his own question. Eventually, he managed, "The Potions assignment?"  
  
"_Exactly_."  
  
"Would you apologize for embarrassing me in front of everyone?" he tiptoed around the subject gently, though it did not change the fact that _he_ still wanted an apology from _her_, for simply calling him down on something _he_ did wrong.  
  
The text book for Defense Against the Dark Arts was closed with a resounding bang. "You're hopeless," she sighed, gathering her work to move out of the common room and up the stairs to the girl's dormitories. "_Utterly hopeless_."  
  
  
That had been Tuesday evening. By the time Friday rolled round, things were even stranger. Not in the days following the failed attempt to reconcile had Ron _once_ attempted to start another row and, even more strangely, he tried his best to prevent simple misunderstandings from blossoming into arguments, whereas before he would go out of his way to grumble under his breath or make careless insults. It was beginning to drive Hermione insane -- he wouldn't apologize, but he would no longer argue with her. Did he just suddenly think he could drop the entire thing without admitting he was wrong? Frustrated, she left the aforementioned and Harry in the midst of dinner with a groan of vexation Friday evening.  
  
Though, halfway to the Gryffindor tower, she was stopped by Professor McGonagall. "Miss Granger, _where_ is Mister Weasley? He's at the risk of being late for detention!"  
  
"He's having dinner," Hermione replied dully, not at all liking being stopped by one of her most liked Professors -- the Head of Gryffindor house and Deputy Headmistress, no less -- to be asked about _Ronald Weasley_.  
  
"Would you fetch him for me? I have three other students to watch over at the moment and Peeves has been threatening to throw water balloons around my room all week, and -- " before the older woman could continue in her plea any further, Hermione resigned herself and gave a grave nod.  
  
"Of course, Professor," she answered in unison with her nodding, turning and heading directly back down the stairs before McGonagall had time enough to thank her.  
  
Arriving shortly thereafter at the Gryffindor table behind Ron, she gave him a sharp tap upon the shoulder, causing him to shrink away and give an annoyed look behind him -- until, it seemed, he realized it was her and smiled broadly. "Yes, Hermione?" came an annoyingly polite and happy inquiry.  
  
"McGonagall wants you. You're going to be late for _detention_," she snapped at him, hoping to wipe the silly smile (which was rapidly blossoming into a grin) from his freckled face. He _knew_ he annoyed her more by acting normal -- or, abnormal, she noted -- instead of angry and refusing to apologize to her. He _knew_ and he was trying to upset her more with it.  
  
"Really?" he said pleasantly, quickly grabbing a few dinner rolls from the table and stuffing them into his robes. "I didn't think it was that late. Than -- " he had paused to gulp down the rest of his pumpkin juice and turned to thank Hermione, but found that she was already storming out of the Great Hall as if he had slapped her across the face.  
  
Partially outside the Great Hall and into the expanse of the entrance hall adjoined to it, Hermione was abruptly stopped by the fiery-haired boy she was _trying_ to avoid. "Thank you, Hermione, for telling me. I would have been late and in more trouble if you hadn't come to get me."  
  
Halting dead in her tracks, she waited for a moment to prevent any overly harsh words from escaping her lips. "McGonagall _sent me_. I told you that."  
  
"Well, I'm sorry if you went out of your way," he replied quickly, to the point that Hermione was beginning to wonder if he was feeling well. He seemed to have gone out of his head with 'thank you's and 'I'm sorry's lately -- just, for the latter, not in the right area.  
  
It was enough to give her a nervous twitch. "I _didn't_ go out of my way!" she snapped, turning around to look at him. "If I had to go out of my way, I would have told McGonagall no and _let_ you be late for your stupid detention!"  
  
Undaunted, Ron smiled still. "I'm sorry, then, did you volunteer to do it?"  
  
Hermione actually thought her left eye _twitched_ -- and immediately felt as if she were channeling Mad Eye Moody -- at the fact that his pleasant mood was resolute against her yelling. "About as much as you'd volunteer to be turned into a pincushion," she retorted harshly and, at this, brandished her wand at him, as if threatening to transfigure him into such a cushion.  
  
Still, he smiled -- perhaps even _broader_, if it were possible -- and looked almost as if he were taking the empty threat as some strange form of flirting, his cheeks and ears growing a bit pink. "I'll see you later, Hermione, after I've served my detention. Thanks, again." With that, he stepped around her and ascended the stairs two at a time.  
  
Hermione could have sworn she heard him mumble: _McGonagall sent me -- a likely story. I'm sure there's a double meaning in that, somewhere_.  
  
With a groan of absolute, sheer, undiluted _frustration_, Hermione followed suit and ascended the steps (though not with as much spring in her step as Ron had), making her way toward the library -- which would _hopefully_ serve as a haven from this absurdity. Entering, she found the dusty book-filled room to be quite vacant of many students (due to the hour) and chose to seat herself at one of the many tables to read a random book pulled from a random shelf, as it didn't matter _what_ she read since it was all equally interesting to her.  
  
  
After nearly fifteen minutes of straight reading, Hermione's concentration was broken by a giggle from the other side of a bookshelf behind her, then the chatter of several distinctly female voices, some of which she recognized. "Please, Parvati," came the hushed whisper of Lavender Brown. "Tell me what you heard."  
  
Hermione, of course, was not one to dally upon the topic of gossip, but her interest was thoroughly piqued when she heard the recognizably accented voice of Ginny Weasley pipe in, "Oh, it was _so_ romantic. Ron! My own brother!"  
  
Romantic. Ron. _Ron Weasley_. The two words didn't even belong in the same sentence -- the same _paragraph_, for that matter -- which was what cinched the deal, causing Hermione to slowly rise from her seat and creep towards the bookshelf which the girls were giggling behind. While pretending to be nonchalantly browsing through the dust-laced volumes before her, she peered through the gaps in the shelf to watch the conversation taking place.  
  
"I can't believe it, myself," Parvati Patil's voice broke through the giggling between Lavender and Ginny -- and two other girls Hermione didn't recognize readily, but remembered from Gryffindor. Parvati went on, speaking more-so to Lavender and the other girls than Ginny, who had since settled into a dreamy state. "We overheard him talking to Harry the other day," she motioned to herself and Ginny. "He said this fight they've been having on and off these weeks is _killing him_. Every argument is a stab to his heart."  
  
With a blink, Hermione realized they were speaking not only about Ron, but about _her_ as well. Why, how dare they make her a subject of uncalled for gossip! It was an outrage if it was anything, as _she_ was Head Girl! About to tear through the shelf of books -- _yes_, tear through _books_ -- to get to the little gossipmongers, she was stilled by Ginny's voice ... and more insight as to what the conversation was about.  
  
"I was there," the younger girl sighed out, smiling as if she had just been given a bouquet of beautiful roses. "I've never heard him speak in such a way before -- I never knew my _very own brother_ could be so poetic, so ... " instead of going on, she let out another sigh, as though her words had completely failed her and that was all she needed to express her feelings.  
  
"He was absolutely _eloquent_!" Parvati burst out, getting a subsequent _Shh!_ from Madam Pince (from all the way across the library, too, that creepy woman). Continuing for her younger, awestruck companion, she began to quote what were, apparently, Ron's exact words, "_Every argument stabs like a knife at my heart. It's ironic, that the very organ which feels so dearly for her would be that which receives the brunt of her attacks._"  
  
_That_ certainly didn't sound much like something Ron would say, Hermione thought, but it was eloquent nonetheless. Still, it caused her to think, but perhaps a moment too late -- what Parvati had to say next captivated her entirely within the same cocoon of romantic warmth which had obviously enveloped Ginny. Trivial details such as what sounded like something Ron would say completely slipped from her mind.  
  
"He said: _I first realized my feelings for her completely two years ago, on a particularly uneventful night, while she was reading by the fireplace in the common room. Maybe it was the lighting or maybe it was the atmosphere or maybe it was the fact that for the first time since I've known her I opened my eyes -- but I suddenly said to myself, 'My God, Hermione Granger is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.' _And, honestly, I thought I might cry."  
  
Lavender (and Hermione) had been listening with rapt attention and held breath, and let out a heavy, dreamy sigh (as did Hermione) after Parvati's account of Ron's words. A squeal of sheer, girlish delight (which Hermione silently echoed) slipped from her lips as she began to beg (with Hermione's silent pleas juxtaposed) for more information. "What else did he say? Anything?"  
  
Parvti inhaled a deep breath of the musty library air before she continued, "He told Harry that he hated what was going on between them, but only argued with her to hide his true feelings -- feelings he couldn't bear to reveal for fear of rejection. He has feelings for her, that's for sure, but could never bear the thought of being rejected."  
  
During a pause, Ginny interjected in a whisper that caused Hermione to strain harder to hear, pushing against the bookshelf separating them and threatening to push several books out the other side. "He ... he said that he would _die_ if he exposed himself in such a way and she didn't accept his _love_."  
  
_Love_? Hermione echoed within her own mind, suddenly feeling a dizzy sort of warmth fill her head, threatening to help her collapse into a faint right then and there. _Love!_  
  
"He said," Parvati whispered, sounding actually _tearful, "_that it was far better to love her in secret than to make himself so vulnerable in such a way!" Her voice had steadily risen, causing another chide from Madam Pince to echo across the library. "And that he would, no matter how painful to his heart, continue to hide his feelings for her behind a façade of acrimony."  
  
Ron using words like _façade _and _acrimony_ were enough, alone, to cause Hermione's heart to skip a beat.  
  
"Isn't there anything that can be done?" Lavender virtually _begged_, asking aloud the very same question that was echoing throughout every pore and fiber of Hermione's being to the point that she mouthed the inquiry along with the girl on the other side of the book shelf. At the same time, she dropped the library book in her right hand dully to the floor, using the then empty hand to press over her rapidly beating heart in vain attempt to still it.  
  
It was the distinct sigh of Ginny, this time, that replied, "I'm afraid not, he's quite set on it. He won't tell her and he won't allow Harry or me to tell her, either."  
  
A pained look overcame Hermione's features at the notion, while at the same time Lavender exclaimed, "It's so tragic!" Again, Madam Pince shushed, this time sounding more threatening than before.  
  
"Tragic, yes," Parvati agreed, still sounding tearful and proving that she was, indeed, by wiping tentatively at her right eye. "But ultimately true. Oh, but if the stars had been right all those years ago!" she let-loose a loud comment, sounding terribly much like the Divination Professor.  
  
This time, however, Madam Pince had had enough and came marching directly back to where the girls were gathered, thoroughly ignoring the awestruck Hermione (who appeared to be looking for a book) as she went straight for the source of trouble. "I _knew _it!" she exclaimed with great relish, ignoring her own rules of silence. "Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, _of course_. That's it, girls. _Out_! And don't come back until tomorrow. This isn't a _social gathering_, it's a _library_." Shooing out the group, who began to giggle as they passed Hermione, Madam Pince turned a concerned eye to the Head Girl.  
  
"Miss Granger? Do you need help looking for a book?" stooping, she picked up the book Hermione had unknowingly dropped.  
  
Blinking as Madam Pince's voice brought her sharply back to reality, Hermione finally tore her eyes away from the book shelf and looked to the Librarian. "I ... um ... was just l-looking for a, er ... "  
  
Pince's brow furrowed at the odd behavior of the young lady, holding up the book she had dropped -- _101 Magical Ways to Ensure Love_. "This?"  
  
The title never caught her eye, but Hermione gave a very assuring nod of her head. "Y-Yes, that's it! Might I borrow it?"  
  
"Of course. Bring it back by the thirtieth," the Librarian carefully handed the thick volume to Hermione, arching a brow in a concerned manner at the text she chose and, again, her strange behavior.  
  
Although usually one to double check a due date and profusely assure to return the book promptly at -- if not _before_ -- that time, Hermione simply took the offered book with a numb nod, strolling past Madam Pince and out the library doors without another word.  
  
_Façade_, she thought again as she moved in the general direction of the Gryffindor tower, though quite unaware that she was taking the excessively long and tedious route to get there. _Ronald Weasley used the word 'façade.'_


	4. The Pathogen of Love and Juxtapositions

  
  


   --   Author's Note:   Although an avid fan of the Harry/Ginny pairing, I've had the hardest time writing it into this story (for anyone who doesn't know _Much Ado About Nothing_, Benedick's friend and Beatrice's cousin are in love, also, which leads to the drama and angst, as you will see), which is why this chapter has taken me longer than I first anticipated.  
  
         Anyway; thanks to Finding Beauty, as always, and Josh (who recently got himself a nice pen name, _Expected Chaos_) -- both for beta reading my stuff and putting up with my bitching about writer's block.  
  
  
  
Love was a strange word for a confusing emotion that left one with an indescribable feeling in the pit of their stomach, the center of their chest, and the entire expanse of their mind. Love was contagious; a deadly pathogen with unmistakable symptoms only cured by the infected falling head-over-heels into oblivion to oblige the urge lodged in the core of his or her being. It was more than simply the sting of Cupid's arrow, as it had been eloquently described in the past, but the burning of every fiber contained within the human body -- absolute anguish and absolute bliss at the exact same time, the searing pain of the powerful emotion being the most thrilling kiss of heaven, all wrapped into a single package. Impossible to ignore, implausible to suppress, and entirely too overwhelming to be stifled, love was something that the bold of heart, strong of mind, and shrewdly skilled all surrendered to when the time came. Unrelenting, it was older and mightier than the very ties of the earth and with more strength in a single moment than all the armies of all the world combined.  
  
For seventeen-year-old Harry Potter, it was as if his lightning-shaped scar had come alive as a storm, which either racked his body with bolts of electricity shooting straight into his heart or sprinkled him with the warm caress of a gentle summer rain. Altogether, agonizingly seraphic.  
  
The very first time the twinge of this entirely new emotion struck him was when the Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor announced during Transfiguration one early October afternoon that there was to be a new celebration for Halloween -- a Masquerade Ball. The first thought that sprung to his mind at the mention of this happened to be a red-haired, slightly freckled sixteen-year-old girl who had tiptoed around her fancying him since before she had come to Hogwarts. It caught him by surprise, actually, as he had never thought of Ginny Weasley in such a way before -- but, since that very moment, he had been unable to think of anyone _but_.  
  
"The point of this Masquerade Ball," Headmaster Dumbledore explained over dinner that evening (for which everyone attended promptly at seven o'clock to receive the announcement), "is to shrug off the typical confines -- and cliques -- of Houses and intermingle with those from others. Therefore, as part of the evening of fun, I will insist that everyone -- Professors included -- mask themselves according to masquerade traditions and neglect to bring with them a dancing companion. There will be prizes awarded for costumes -- which may be received from Gladrags, in Hogsmeade -- and various games."  
  
The Headmaster had sounded absolutely delighted at the prospect of prizes and games, quite unaware that at the mention of neglecting dancing companions much of the excitement of the Great Hall had been quieted, as if an invisible quilt had muffled the rising enthusiasm. Harry, who was quite shocked by this announcement (whereas, years before, he would have relished in the idea of not having to lasso a girl just to ask her to a ball), sat rather sulkily at the Gryffindor table afterwards, picking with disinterest at the boiled potatoes upon his gilded plate.  
  
"Well," Hermione finally spoke up, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the their end of the table, while attempting to sound as if she wasn't taken aback by the news, either. "That's good, isn't it? No more of this off-centered nose nonsense."  
  
At the mention of Eloise Midgen, to who Ron was absolutely adverse to asking to the Yule Ball years before due to her off-centered nose, the red-haired boy's ears flushed a bright pink. He, however, declined to make a retort to the statement, the news of Viktor Krum's engagement and Hermione's heart belonging to another still fresh within his mind, no doubt.  
  
Harry noticed that the two were just about as downtrodden (if not _more_) as he over the news. "It makes things easier," he noted, mustering a vague sort of ardor in his tone, eyes flickering down the table towards the object of his sudden interest. "I guess there's a reason for it, though. I don't think they'd go so far as to make us dance with Slytherins if we didn't want to, you know?"  
  
But, neither of his two best friends replied. Perhaps the thought of being forced to do what Harry had suggested (though it was very far removed from the realm of possibility) had disgusted them to the point that words could not convey their emotions -- certainly, it caused them to drop their forks in dismay.  
  
  
The very next Hogsmeade weekend, every student from third year and beyond (first and second year students being unable to attend the Masquerade) went happily to retrieve their costumes from Gladrags, which was swamped with customers well before noon and not cleared until sometime right before five in the evening. Harry, much surprised, found that many of the costumes sold at Gladrags were simply glorified dress robes with beautifully crafted masks -- nothing at all like the costumes Dudley used to wear on Halloween, to prance around Privet Drive as a devil or vampire in order to obtain sacks full of candy. Which was a good thing, he quickly accepted, as he had no mind to push and shove his way through the store in order to browse endlessly for a perfect costume. Instead, he quickly obtained a set of dark vermilion dress robes (which were, to his liking, offset with golden thread-work around the cuffs) and a mask, finely constructed into the face belonging to a lion and painted to look like tarnished gold.  
  
Briskly purchasing the piece of attire and accessory, Harry quickened to escape the madness of the store and push his way out of the door onto the main street. Once outside in the fresh, crisp air of mid-autumn, he plundered through the Gladrags bag to retrieve the mask and view it in the white sunlight of the particularly overcast day.  
  
"That's a beautiful mask, Harry," he heard the distinctly southern, but distinctly feminine, voice of a Weasley from over his shoulder. "Very Gryffindor, especially for Captain of the team."  
  
"Yeah, I was thinking along those lines," came a rather bold lie, as he had just grabbed whatever had remotely interested him and matched the dress robes. "You like it?" Harry turned to inquire, noting a similar bag from Gladrags in Ginny's hand.  
  
Shifting the bag, which was bulging with her own dress robes (which, proudly, were brand new, as she had been recently given a large, monetary birthday present from Fred and George, who were by then successful entrepreneurs), Ginny gave a vigorous nod. "It's very, um, _you_," she commented, her cheeks soon coloring to the point that her freckles were nearly hidden.  
  
"What's your costume?" Harry inquired, his attention caught by the nearly overflowing bag.  
  
"Nothing special," her reply was quickly given, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over her in order to tint her ears the same scarlet color as her cheeks.  
  
Harry intended to ask again in vain attempt to coerce the information playfully from her, but as soon as he opened his mouth, something else entirely came out. "Do you want to go to get some butterbeer?"  
  
This, apparently, took Ginny by complete surprise and did nothing to curb the tinge rising to her entire face.  
  
"We still have a little while before curfew," Harry insisted, not at all knowing what he was saying and feeling as if he was talking completely out of his head. Still, there was no use in stopping by the time he actually realized he had invited Ginny to the student-friendly pub and insisted upon it by bringing up the He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-influenced curfew.  
  
A simple nod of her russet-framed head was given to accept the pursued offer, at which time the two turned towards the Three Broomsticks, though not at all walking at a pace those fully interested in the warmed drink would be.  
  
  
"Interesting," Parvati intoned, exiting Gladrags with her twin sister, Padma, and noting the fact that Harry was apparently idling down the sidewalk hand-in-hand with Ron's younger sister.  
  
"What's interesting about _that_?" Padma inquired after a moment's glance towards the two in question, her head by that time nearly completely stuck into the Gladrags' bag in her hands.  
  
Parvati cast a rather annoyed look towards her twin, before returning her attention to where it had previously wandered. "Just proves love's about as contagious as the measles."  
  
  


--  


  


  


The Slytherin common room was such a hive of unnecessary activity several nights prior to Halloween that many of the older (and subsequently wiser and more cunning) students of the serpentine house began to complain, though rather in the shadowed corners of the room, away from the frantic jabber of the ignorant children who had yet to learn that it was unbecoming of a Slytherin to do such inane things. Although Draco would heartily admit to having a go at the golden trio of Gryffindor from time to time, he would never admit to having done so without tact, wit, and -- above all -- a stance on higher ground. Never, in his entire life, would he be found pledging guilt to blundering through an insult, much as these children were blundering through preparations. It was simply not done, especially by those who knew better through maturity and prestige.  
  
"Did you see it?" Draco inquired sneeringly towards his group of companions (in an effort to steer their conversing away from the annoyance placed upon them by younger housemates), most of who stupidly followed his previous gaze towards the rest of the common room, looking around for something to laugh at within their own house. "_No_," he snapped, having expected such ignorance from Crabbe and Goyle, but none others. "At _Hogsmeade_. Did you see it?"  
  
Pansy Parkinson, who was almost practically sitting in his lap, despite the fact that the Head Boy was lounging upon one of the deep green couches which littered the common room, exclaimed as soon as the wheels of her head had turned the correct number of times. "Oh! _That_. It was disgusting." Though, in the end, she sounded much the way she looked -- grossly incomprehensive of the situation.  
  
"It was," Draco agreed, lip twitching slightly in annoyance at the wait he had been forced to endure while she worked out what he was speaking of, which he doubted she had fully accomplished at all, even. Nevertheless, he continued, wanting on with the conversation and not to dally on the limited ability of use of whatever was within Pansy's skull. "Can you believe it? First, Weasel and Granger start making eyes at each other, more obvious than ever. Now? _Potter_ and Weasel's sister." The last name was spat out with such force he nearly did spit, face contorting with disgust.  
  
Blaise Zabini brushed her flowing scarlet hair from her face, looking up to Draco from where she sat on the floor, leaning against an armchair opposite the couch upon which he relaxed, much like a feline. "Something needs to be done, don't you think?" she inquired quietly, apparently the only one with any understanding of what he was saying or getting at.  
  
Doing something -- with the prospect of throwing a hitch into whatever plans _Potter_ had -- was such an alluring prospect that he sat up from laying his head across the back of the leather-covered couch and staring at the ceiling to turn his full attention to Blaise. "Is there a plan forming in that beautifully shaped head of yours?" he inquired, far too excited over the sheer _idea _of an idea (since it was so rare in the company of minions he held) that he failed to comply with the general rule to play along with Pansy's façade. Apparently, she had gotten the thought into her ridiculously dog-like head that he _liked_ her -- dare he even mention the word _love_ -- and he generally obliged her with cordial conversation ... just because she was quite adept at doing things he asked of her.  
  
This question caused Pansy's face (indeed, very reminiscent of a pug) to contort into a look of severe loathing, which was thrown towards the overly attractive redhead.  
  
"I was simply thinking about that poor Weasley girl," though the words spilling from her freshly painted, blood-red lips sounded sincere, it was quite apparent by the sneer upon her face that they were not. Draco leaned forward further, sensing adeptly the sort of plan brewing behind the pallor of the woman before him, though he was made to wait with bated breath for her to continue, left simply with the continuation, "She bought robes similar to my own."  
  
Crabbe and Goyle, standing against the wall with arms folded over broad chests, looked at each other in confusion for a moment, both wondering if that meant anything at all.  
  
"Is that so?" He leaned away abruptly, settling back against the comfortable sofa to ponder over this piece of information and allow his train of thought to run parallel with the only person in the group who threatened readily to outwit him. He loved that, if only from Blaise.  
  
Silence descended over the small group, only broken vaguely by Pansy's uncomfortable shifting upon the couch and Goyle's stomach rumbling from the overeating of treats from that night's dessert.  
  
Finally, Draco's face broke with a grin -- rather sinister, his own pride partially coloring it, as well -- and he sat up once more upon the sofa. "What a perfectly _evil_ plan, Blaise," he commended her by turning the grin in her direction. "All that's left now is to see that it's prepared and followed through with."  
  
Seeing he was quite pleased, Blaise rose from the floor and shot the sulking Pansy a virtually filthy look, before settling herself lightly upon Draco's lap. Leaning closer, rouged lips began to whisper just as his earlobe. Whatever it was, it caused him to laugh -- not jovially, but in a low, baleful chuckle of delectation.


	5. Seizing the Fish and Fairy Tail Romances

  
  
  


"I've been wanting to say this for a _very_ long time, 'Mione," the nickname he had simply been dying to use for years rolled fluidly from his tongue as if he had spoken it every day of his life. " -- First, I'm really, really, _really_ sorry about the Potions assignment. It was an irresponsible thing for me to do and I'll promise you right now that I'll never do it again, so long as I live. I _swear_."  
  
Ron paused, perhaps waiting for the typical Hermione response of: _Ronald Weasley, I've told you countless times not to swear!_ Yet, only silence met him, urging him to continue onward.  
  
"And, well, I wanted to tell you -- _ask_ you, I mean -- " he paused, looking pained for a moment as he thought of how to rephrase. Nothing sounded quite so perfect as it did in his mind once it was pushed past his lips and he heard it with his own ears. In fact, his voice sounded _nervous_. "_Look_," he finally said, determination shining through the quiver in his tone. "I _know_ that we're not supposed to have dancing partners at this ball, right? But ever since fourth year, I've set it in my mind that the next time there was going to be anything even a _little_ like the Yule Ball, I was going to ask you _first_ -- not as a last resort, not before some Bulgarian git snatches you up for himself. Because -- " he faltered again, looking to his feet for a moment, then back up again, " -- Because, well, you're _my_ Hermione."  
  
Behind him, a single pair of hands began a flurry of applause, while the mirror before him broke out with, "Oh, but if only I were her! You've partially wooed me already!"  
  
Really, it was enough to make him want to fall over and die right there. The only comfort that came from his need to practice in front of a mirror and his baby sister came from the fact that Viktor Krum had taken weeks to work up his courage to talk to the exact same girl. Him? He was only taking a few days. _Beat that, you Bulgarian git_.  
  
"Ron, that was _perfect_," Ginny literally cooed over his speech, which she had been watching progress through various stages for the past few hours, despite the fact that she wasn't technically allowed to be sitting in the boy's dormitory. "I think you should keep it -- _just like that_!"  
  
This came as a surprise to him, causing him to turn and give her a look of curiosity, mixed with a generally _unhealthy _amount of satisfaction, doubt, relief, uncertainty, and something even _he_ couldn't place, as it was a squirming feeling that leapt from his stomach to his chest. "You think I should call her _'Mione_, though? I mean, you think she'd hate that?"  
  
At this, Ginny gave a rather honest shrug of her shoulders. "You won't know until you find out. That's what I'm trying to tell you Ron -- half of life isn't _guessing_, it's just _doing_."  
  
"What if I sound like a prat, though?" he glanced over his shoulder towards the mirror, pursing his lips at one side to give a quizzical look towards his reflection. The mirror, however, found this look cute and began to giggle quietly.  
  
"That's not important, Ron! Carpe Diem!"  
  
"I _hate_ fish, Gin -- "  
  
"No!_ Seize the day_!" Slipping from the bed, Ginny moved over to grasp her brother by the shoulders and turn him to face her. Despite their apparent height differences, she looked him in the eye with a very serious expression upon her face. "Is this what you want to do?"  
  
Ron blinked, then thought, then struggled with himself for a moment, before finally allowing that feeling which had leapt into his chest overcome everything else in his mind. "Yes."  
  
"More than anything else in the entire world, is this what you want to do?" Ginny rephrased the question, still leveling him with her stare.  
  
"_Yes_," he returned, almost surprised by the amount of confidence in his voice.  
  
"Then, Ronald Weasley, you had best have at it, the Masquerade Ball is _this evening_!"  
  
The sudden realization that the thing that had him on the edge of his seat, with anticipation and fear, for weeks was almost at hand slapped him back to reality sharply. Instead of panicking, however, he gave only a nod, at which time Ginny released her viselike (and vaguely reminiscent of his mother's) grip on his arms. A glance to his watch told him that there was still a good five hours to go before that evening's celebration would take place, but he felt it better to get things done with before it was too late. That, and he knew exactly where Hermione would be at that point in time. "I'm glad we're not supposed to be taking dance partners to this thing, though," Ron finally spoke up, moving over to his bed to slip into his overly large shoes.  
  
"Why's that? I thought you'd be happier if you could."  
  
"Well," he thought of how to phase his response as he laced his footwear. "I kept having this dream that Viktor Krum showed up and asked her to the Masquerade before I had the chance -- even if I asked her during the _announcement_, she told me she was going with him." At this, an odd look of disbelief at his own dreams came over his face.  
  
"What happened then?" Ginny inquired tentatively.  
  
"Oh, um," he paused, standing from where he had sat upon the edge of the four-poster bed to tie his shoes. "I had to transfigure him into a bug and step on him." As if he suddenly realized that the thought of turning his much hated (yet much idolized) former competition into a bug and squishing him underfoot was _good_, Ron grinned. Then, inhaling a deep breath of air, he started across the circular room to the door. "Here goes everything."  
  
"Don't make such a deal about _everything_, Ron. It's _nothing_," Ginny called soothingly from where she still stood near the center of the room. "Just do it -- I _know_ she'll say yes." And, as a matter of fact, she _did_.  
  
  


--

  
  


It was noon on the thirty-first of October and Hermione had been pacing the same couple of square feet of carpet for hours on end, throwing nervous glances towards her dress robes and mask, then towards the mirror at her worried expression. Several feet away, Ginny sat placidly upon Hermione's bed, stroking a rather lazy looking Crookshanks. "It isn't too forward at all, Hermione. I say go for it."  
  
Behind a thin fringe of chestnut bangs, her forehead creased with apprehension, hands clasping behind her back to make sure that nails were not chewed out of nervous habit. "No, no. I can't do it, Ginny, I just _can't_. I'll make a fool of myself, I know it. Besides, it's too late -- it's _tonight_."  
  
Ginny, who had been voted by the rest of the conspirators as the general mediator for the two, looked up from petting the purring cat, "It's _never_ too late, Hermione."  
  
"It is!" she wailed, pausing finally to flop into the nearest armchair -- as there were several littering the dormitory -- with an almost _dramatic_ sigh. "This isn't some sort of childhood fairy tale where everything fits perfectly into place the night of the ball and you're surely not my Fairy Godmother!"  
  
At this, the youngest Weasley paused and blinked. Then, assuming it must have been a Muggle thing (since _fairy's tails_ weren't even remotely what they were talking about), she went on, "I wasn't saying _everything_ could fall perfectly into place. That's just ridiculous. I'm just saying that sometimes there are things in life that you want and that won't just fall into your lap. You have to go out and _get them_!"  
  
This seemed to bring Hermione out of her dramatics, as it was perfectly logical. After a moment spent purely in thought, however, she gave up again, with another sigh (though this one not nearly so dramatic). "And, what if what I want doesn't want to be gotten?"  
  
"_How_ do you know that? I'm sorry, but even though you were a Prefect and you're Head Girl, Hermione, there are a lot of things in the world that you have no idea about -- _especially_ what lies deep within my brother's heart." Ginny bit at her lower lip after speaking her mind on the subject, hoping that her soft and apologetic tone had been enough to stifle her older friend's temper at being told she was wrong.  
  
Hermione's large brown eyes glistened with what were apparently, at first, tears of hurt, before she whispered, "You know, I really like when people tell me I'm wrong about things I want to be wrong about. Do you ... do you really think he'd want me to do this?"  
  
Ginny uncrossed her legs from sitting meditatively upon the crimson bedecked bed and padded on bare feet towards the armchair in which her friend was settled into. Taking her hands (having to pry one away from rubbing at Hermione's forehead), she pulled her up from sitting and looked her straight in the eye. "Do you want to do this, Hermione?"  
  
Swallowing hard, as if to push doubt away from springing into her throat, Hermione nodded her head, tossing bushy curls about her face. "Yes."  
  
"More than anything else in the entire world, is this what you want to do?"  
  
"_Yes_," she heard herself reply before the answer had even come to her mind. It _was_ what she wanted to do, what she had _wanted_ to do for a while, and (she noted while butterflies multiplied ten fold in her stomach) what she was _going_ to do.  
  
"Then, Hermione Granger, you had best get to it soon. You only have eight hours until the ball begins."  
  
Not able to get over the fact that Ginny _did_ seem so much like a Fairy Godmother, Hermione tugged her into a sudden embrace, finally allowing the tears welling in her eyes to spill down her cheeks. There was really no reason in the world to be crying, she realized after a moment, but she felt the need to if only due to the fact that she was happy to have someone to talk some sense into her after walking around in a dazed state for weeks. "I just don't know if I can do it all on my own. I'm not used to being so ... _forward_," Hermione admitted, though perhaps not without a bit of a lie -- she was forward enough to rattle collection tins beneath people's noses, but not forward enough to ask Ron to be her dancing partner at this supposedly partnerless ball. Perhaps it was just the way it sounded. It had become a fad over the past few weeks for students to inconspicuously agree to go to the ball with one another, making her plan sound quite reasonable if one kept that in mind.  
  
"All right, I'll tell you what," Ginny said, pulled slowly away from the embrace while attempting to mask her grin of excitement (it couldn't have worked better, her plan having been to suggest it out of the thin air before). "I'll go talk to Ron right now -- not mentioning anything that you've said, but letting him know that you want to talk to him about something important. At about, say, three o'clock, I'll have him meet you in the common room, all right?"  
  
Wiping at her cheeks and beneath her eyes, Hermione thought about the plan. "You won't mention what I want to talk to him about?" she inquired for reassurance. obtaining a quick nod in response. "Then, all right. Let's do that."  
  
Ginny, who was positively _beaming_ by that time, fought the urge to jump up and give a triumphant yell. "Okay, consider it done. I'll have him in the common room by three o'clock, come hell or high water."  
  
"Ginny!" came Hermione's chiding tone at the swearing, though it was the last thing that probably reached the girl's ears, as she was halfway out the door by then.  
  
  


--

  
  


At five minutes after three, Ron descended the set of stone stairs leading up to the dormitories and entered the common room of the Gryffindor Tower quietly. Right away, he began to scan around for the person he was seeking (and who Ginny had informed him would be sitting in the common room, though how _she_ knew he wasn't sure), finding her with her nose stuck in a book in the far corner of the room. Though, her attention seemed to be fixed upon her watch rather than . . . _101 Magical Ways to Ensure Love_. Suddenly, he was reminded of Ginny's words -- _I know she'll say yes!_ An odd coincidence? More likely that Hermione had taken ill and was thinking she was reading _Hogwarts: A History_.  
  
It was five minutes past the hour (and two minutes after she had previously checked) when Hermione noticed Ron had entered the common room and spotted her sitting in the corner. The book, which she had still neglected to look at the title of (obviously), was promptly closed and set aside as she rose from her chair. "Ron, I need to -- "  
  
"Hermione, could we talk some -- "  
  
Each paused in order to let the other speak, though neither continued from where they left off with hopes that the other would finish the sentence they had began. In the end, they each began to attempt a new sentence two more times, being promptly cut off by the other, until Hermione finally insisted that Ron go first (to which he gave much, _abnormal_, protest but eventually agreed).  
  
"Well, I just wanted to know if we could go somewhere to talk. Like, er, around the grounds somewhere?" Ron attempted to look calm while he suggested this, though he felt the heat which usually accompanied a blush upon his cheeks.  
  
This notion caused Hermione's heart to do something that felt like a gymnastic routine, making it very hard for her to keep even a semblance of calm upon hearing him out. "O-Oh, w-well," she stammered, quickly closing her mouth to prevent more nervous-induced idiocy. After a moment spent collecting herself, she finally replied, "Of course, Ron. We can talk on the way to the greenhouses. I was, um, about to head there anyway. Professor Sprout told us that she would be giving out roses from her flower garden to the seventh year girls who wanted to enchant them to match their costumes for the Ball." The explanation could have gone on longer, if she hadn't forced herself to close her mouth.  
  
Ron, only vaguely accepting the beginning of what sounded to be a cut-short long-winded explanation (due to the fact that Hermione _always_ talked at great length whenever she was nervous), led the way out of the common room without another word, fearing he might say something rather stupid in response. With Hermione following just behind he walked at a rapid speed down the many sets of stairs until reaching the entrance hall of the castle and exiting through the large front doors, whereupon he felt he could finally breathe easily.  
  
Hermione felt as if her lungs were about to explode, finding herself quite out of breath after the rapid walk through the castle. Ron's legs were too long for her to keep up with his quickened stride without breaking into a run, leaving her panting lightly and massaging a stitch in her side by the time they came to the outside steps of the castle. Although she wanted to note that there really was no point to rush out as if the entire place was on fire, she found herself glad that he had done so -- it was uncomfortable to speak around the various paintings, suits of armor, and passing students.  
  
"All right?" Ron inquired sincerely over the fact that Hermione looked as if she had just run a mile -- or, actually, through the entire castle, attempting to keep up with him. "Sorry about that, I just don't like talking around all those ears and eyes. Bloody paintings everywhere."  
  
"I was thinking the exact same thing, you know," her reply came after a moment longer of labored breathing. Finally catching her breath, she leaned away from where she had faltered against the stone wall, and started down the steps and in the direction of the greenhouses, at a measured pace.  
  
Ron, walking in a deliberately slow fashion as soon as he was at her side, lapsed into silence as his memory began to fail him -- he was supposed to be talking about something, he was sure of it.  
  
"What did you want to talk about, anyway?" she pressed, attempting her very best not to sound eager to hear it, though her words eventually deceived her. In fact, she thought she sounded almost to be _begging_ him to tell her.  
  
"Er, well. I ... I wanted to tell you something ... that's been on my mind for a while." It was all Ron could managed to get out while still controlling the tone of his voice to keep it from quivering as it had done to perfectly in his rehearsals.  
  
This caused her to pause for a moment as her heart skipped a beat. "Really?" Hermione gasped out, her breath having caught in her chest at merely thinking about what it could be -- though, after the thought passed, she _had _to call herself silly. Parvati and Ginny had claimed that he was too afraid to tell her anything remotely in the realm of _that_.  
  
"I -- " he paused, pushing the two words that formed in his mind away from his lips, despite how well they sounded with the one he had already spoken, " -- feel really bad about that argument we had a while back." At her silence, he continued, "And, er, wanted to let you know how sorry I am over all the things I said."  
  
_No, of course he wasn't about to say it. What if Parvati lied? . . . Ginny would never, though. Never!_ "Oh," Hermione replied quickly, not quite so sure why her voice was laden with such disappointment. All she had wanted a few weeks earlier had been an apology from him for starting that argument, now she was about to get one and felt like she'd rather walk into a convention of Death Eaters than _not_ hear what she wanted to hear _now_.  
  
Sensing the fact that she was displeased, he continued with the parts of the carefully prepared speech that he could remember. "I'm really, really, _really_ sorry about the Potions assignment. I was being really irresponsible, you know? And, right now, I'll promise you that I'll never do anything like it _again_. Ever. I _swear_."  
  
"Ron, don't _swear_," was the only thing she could bring herself to say, disappointment weighing heavily upon her chest and pulling her words away from the jovial tone they were supposed to carry, making her sound deadly serious. It sounded as if he was trying to ensure that they would never have an argument of such magnitude again, she concluded upon remembering that it had been like daggers stabbing at his heart. _Why couldn't he just come out and say everything else?_ she wondered, not wanting to admit that his lack of confidence was dragging her own down and through the mud. Perhaps Ginny and Parvati had been mistaken, even. What if she said what she had been planning and made a fool of herself?  
  
"I wasn't swearing _that_ way, just making a very important promise," he groped around for something else, before remembering how angry she had been weeks before when he tried to apologize without admitting that he had been the one who started things. "And, um, trying to tell you that I started things with that Potions assignment," Ron continued, though with less enthusiasm and confidence. "And, that I'm really sorry."  
  
It wasn't going at all the way she planned. "I accept your apology, Ron. Now, stop apologizing so profusely before you get to the point of groveling," Hermione attempted to joke again, though found herself only able to give a halfhearted laugh and her hardly funny tone of voice.  
  
_What the hell am I doing?_ Ron mentally kicked himself over and over and over. _This isn't supposed to be how it works. I was supposed to call her 'Mione, then apologize, then ask her go to the Ball with me even though we're not supposed to have dancing partners._ But, it was too late to even begin to correct things, he decided with a heavy sigh, not even picking up on the fact that she had attempted a joke.  
  
_I was supposed to tell him that I was never really mad at him over the assignment, but because he was too proud to admit his was wrong and I was too proud to admit that I overreacted,_ Hermione watched her feet plod through the grass beneath them, thinking over the exact course of actions she had plotted out in her mind since Ginny had left her dormitory three hours before. _Then I was supposed to tell him that, even though we weren't supposed to, I wanted to go to the Ball with him._ But, it was impossible to do that now, after his apology that she didn't want and she felt she had forced out of him. What could she say now? 'I'm sorry that I forced you to apologize by arguing with you for a month, please take me to the Masquerade Ball.' No, she couldn't say that -- or anything else, at least for a while.  
  
"Actually," Hermione said after some _very _oppressive silence, looking to her wristwatch. "I should go start getting ready. Why don't we -- you, Ginny, Harry, and I -- meet in the common room at half past seven to go down to the Great Hall together? We can all get a table, or something," she suggested, feeling like a great prat for suddenly changing her plans.  
  
The sudden change in her attitude -- from downtrodden to whimsical -- caused Ron to blink with surprise. Though, he had to admit, if he were in her place, he'd want to get away from himself, too. "Um, yeah. That sounds good. What about your rose, though?"  
  
It would have been _nice_ to have one, but Hermione felt the sudden need to shut herself away from the world (for at least a few hours) after making herself feel like such an idiot. "Er. I don't really need one, after all. I'll see you back in the common room."  
  
Ron barely had time to say good-bye, before Hermione had started back off towards the castle at a run. "If that could have gone _any _worse, I'd _love _to know how," he muttered softly to himself, kicking at the blades of grass at his feet. He stood there for quite some time to review what had gone wrong with his plan, what he should have said differently, and what in the world he could do to set things right.  
  
After what seemed like hours of thought, he continued on their original course to the greenhouses. Perhaps Professor Sprout would give him a rose, despite the fact that he wasn't female. He just hoped he wouldn't have to confess his new plan of action to the Herbology Professor -- there were already too many people at Hogwarts who knew that he was a love-starved prat.  
  
Well, what was one more, anyway?


	6. Madcoil

  
  


   **--**  Author's Note:   This chapter does contain some things that could be considered graphic by some people, just as fair warning. Also, the name _Madcoil_ comes from the comic book Elf Quest, in which a horrific monster is created when a snake and long-tooth cat battle to the death in a pit of foul magic. Obvious imagery is implied there, which is why I _had_ to use it. Elf Quest was created by Wendy and Richard Pini (who are Gods, much like J.K. Rowling) and is copyrighted by Warp Graphics; no infringement was intended.  


  
  
  
  
  


"I just couldn't do it," came Ron's sullen explanation as he straightened out his deep navy dress robes for the fiftieth time, speaking more to his shoes than to his roommates.  
  
Neville, who was the only one of the Gryffindor seventh years _not_ in on the plot, gave Ron a sympathetic look as he straightened his own, vaguely wrinkled, robes. "Don't worry, Ron. It took me forever to get up the courage to ask her to the Yule Ball. I was devastated when I found out she already had a date. But with this one, you don't even need a dancing partner before hand."  
  
It was the first time in his life that Neville Longbottom had ever succeeded in making _sense_. From his statement sprung one of Harry's, "He's _right_," he said, not at all bothering to mask his astonishment. "You don't need to ask her to go with you, just ask her to dance."  
  
"That's your plan," Ron muttered, his mood turning even more sour as he remembered the conversation he had had with Harry a few days before. The git wanted to dance with his _sister_ at the Masquerade Ball. Why, if Ron hadn't been so distraught with his own worries, he might have just hauled off and broken Harry's nose. He might have been the Boy Who Lived, but he wasn't about to be the Boy Who Put the Moves on Ginny Weasley Without Getting a Broken Nose from Her Older Brother. Yet, somehow, he couldn't muster the strength to clench a fist. Still, he would be _watching_ and at the first sign of any moves being put on his baby sister, Harry would have to deal with . . . well, whatever Ron could get from his wand.  
  
"I thought for sure when you came in with that _rose_, you had a plan of your own," Dean interrupted, struggling with the clasps of his robe for a moment, before forgetting it and settling upon his bed with a sigh of frustration. "Look, mate, just go and ask her to dance. She's _crazy_ about you."  
  
"I _did _have a plan," Ron muttered, which was seemingly the only thing he could do. "I'm just not so sure about it now."  
  
Harry pulled at the sleeves of his vermilion dress robes with a sigh, also of frustration, though over _Ron_ and not his attire. Though, secretly, he suspected Dean was frustrated over the same, exact thing. "Go on with it, mate. Dean's right -- she's absolutely crazy about you and if you can't see that . . . then, well, you're better off not even _trying_."  
  
He _couldn't_ see it, though, but he couldn't see how he was better off _not_ trying, either. Perhaps he was just too blinded by his own fears and disquiet that it was impossible to see anything else other than that. He should just take Ginny's advice wholeheartedly, then, and listen to that insane feeling in his chest and _carp the denim _-- or . . . _whatever_.  
  
Moving over to the table beside his bed, Ron gingerly picked up the long-stem, white-petaled rose Professor Sprout had given him -- once he had spilled his entire plan out, along with all his hopes and dreams and fears and desires. He had been on the verge of confessing that he wanted to marry Hermione and be the father of her children before Sprout finally took pity on his poor love-sick soul and gave him the most beautiful flower of the bunch. She had then offered him tea, as well (perhaps thinking he needed something to calm him down after the ordeal), but he had been so embarrassed that he couldn't even speak, let alone stay for _tea_. He would never be able to go to Herbology again. "Ginny said her dress robes were _indigo_," he commented more to himself than anyone else in the dormitory, shaking the recent memory from his head.  
  
Neville opened his mouth, perhaps to ask what in the world _indigo_ was, but was silenced by a raised hand from Seamus (who was not surprisingly decked in _green_).  
  
Removing his wand from the inside of his robes, Ron cast a simple coloring charm on the rose, transforming it from a stark white to the color of a late spring twilight. "All right. So, all I have to do is give it to her. And, then, she'll be all . . . well, _mushy_, like girls get. And, then, at the Ball, I'll ask her to dance. Right?"  
  
"Right," Harry replied, several similar responses chiming in with reassuring nods of heads. "It's almost half past, Ron, we better get going. Ginny said she wanted some pictures before we left, too. Your mum apparently put her on picture duty, after not getting any from the Yule Ball for her scrap books."  
  
"_Brilliant_," he sarcastically muttered, following the rest of them out of their dormitory while placing the rose carefully within his robes. Once in the common room below, which was fairly crowded with many of the older students who had chosen not to arrive at the entrance of the Great Hall _too_ early, Ron began to use his many inches of height to his advantage, scanning over the tops of heads for Hermione and Ginny. "There they are," he announced to his companions, beginning to weave through the crowd toward the two of them.  
  
There was a torrent of overly formal greetings (which _must _have been due to the overly formal attire), before the group settled down and began to converse casually as they waited for Lavender and Parvati to show up (both whom Dean and Seamus respectively intended to ask to the dance floor and never allow them to leave). While the conversation turned to pictures, the job of taking Ginny had handed over to her classmate Colin Creevey, Ron stuck away from the group and pulled Hermione gently by the elbow over with him.  
  
For a moment, there was nothing that came to his mind to say, aside from some vague sound of awe at her appearance. She was stunningly beautiful -- not to say that she wasn't beautiful every day he had ever seen her, but more stunningly so in the dazzling dress robes, ornate hair style, and touches of makeup. "I, um, er," he attempted after a moment of gaping, but found that no words seemed fitting enough. Instead, he merely brushed a hand inside his robes and withdrew the charmed rose to show her.  
  
"Ron!" she exclaimed, almost causing him to shrink away in fear that she might have been angry. Instead, however, she took the rose lightly from his hand, then threw her arms around him in a hug which drew quite a bit of attention from those around them. "It's beautiful! Did you get it from Professor Sprout? -- You didn't _steal_ it, did you?"  
  
"Yes, I did. -- _No_! I didn't do _that_. I just . . . I just told her that I wanted to give one to you for the Masquerade and you were too busy to get it yourself." This, of course, was a lie, but he didn't want to go so far as to tell her that he was groveling on his hands and knees in front of their Herbology teacher and professing his love to the heavens _just_ to obtain that single rose. Stealing it would have been a better idea, he realized, upon reflecting.  
  
Eventually, she reluctantly discontinued the embrace and went to straightening her robes, before giving him a very appreciative smile. "That's so _sweet _of you, Ron. Thank you." As she went about examining the rose (and more or less attempting to figure out how and where to attach it to her robes), Ginny flashed Ron a grin.  
  
"All right, everyone. Pictures! Then we'll head down to the Great Hall. Just a few, though, since we don't want to be late," Ginny announced, once Parvati and Lavender had arrived, gathering the group around and positioning them accordingly -- while also reminding just about every one of Molly Weasley, in the process.  
  
By the time the pictures were underway, Hermione had bewitched the rose into a corsage and fastened it about her right wrist, positively _glowing_ over the unexpected gift. Obviously, the sudden bout of frustration which had driven her into the girl's dormitory (and alarmed her roommates) earlier in the day had vanished completely. Colin Creevey, who was far less annoying by the time he had grown into his sixth year at Hogwarts, took several pictures with a Wizarding camera (then some with his own Muggle camera) before Ginny announced that she was satisfied. After which, the group and whatever stragglers had stayed behind in the Gryffindor common room donned their masks and headed through the portrait hole with the Great Hall as their destination.  
  
  
The Great Hall, the doors of which were open by the time the remaining Gryffindors made their way into the adjoining entrance hall, was decorated in a similar fashion as it had been in the years past -- though, many subtle changes and additions had been made for that particular evening of events. The many fluttering black bats still clung to the translucent ceiling far above, from which orange and black streamers of thin paper were draped in a crisscrossed fashion dangerously close to the typical floating candles found hovering near the bewitched stone. The usual twelve jack-o'-lanterns had been carved in varying fashions this year and positioned about the room, lit by large, black flames. Upon a raised stage where the teacher's dining table usually sat, there was a band of skeletons, dressed in tattered and torn black robes (resembling a dead form of the Weird Sisters, actually), already set at playing rather enchanting music -- for skeletons, that is. There was an assorted number of round tables, large enough to seat twelve, scattered around the room in place of the usual house tables, a skeletal waiter (obvious by the white linen draped over an arm and the menus in hand) stood ready to take orders.  
  
One of the tables was enough to seat the group from Gryffindor, though they found it difficult at once to place orders with the waiter, who could obviously not speak. Thus, asking about the things listed on the menu was a moot point, leaving them the only option of sticking with what they knew best. It was general consensus that butterbeer would be the drink of the night all around the table, so that much, at least, was set. Much to everyone's surprise, the dinner turned out to be superb, if they weren't still quite taken aback by being served by a bewitched skeleton which they could only _hope_ was fake.  
  
Dining concluded quickly, due to the rapid and efficient service as well as everyone's excitement to get on with the Masquerade -- never mind the fact that it was quite a challenge to dine while wearing full masks, as some no doubt discovered. Once those in attendance had stood, Headmaster Dumbledore (recognizable by the length of white hair and beard protruding from what appeared to be a mask resembling Fawkes' face) pushed the tables and chairs back along the walls with a wave of his hand and, with the wave of another, extinguished the floating candles above to leave the Great Hall lit only by the eerie, purple glow from the twelve carved pumpkins with black flames dancing within their mouths.  
  
"At this time, we will start the festivities of the night with a round of dancing. It will, however, be _ladies choice_," the elderly wizard announced, obviously beaming behind his phoenix mask. "With that said, ladies, please carry on with your selecting."  
  
There was an awkward moment of absolute silence within the hall, before the skeletal band struck up a deliberate, tragic tune perfect for slow dancing, inspiring those gathered to pair off. Harry immediately found himself being led to the dance floor by Ginny, who looked absolutely divine in her elegant, chartreuse dress robes, dancing there for several moments until he noticed a masked, but nonetheless dazzled, Ron waltz up beside him with a corsaged girl in his arms. "_Finally_," he heard Ginny murmur into his ear.  
  
The Masquerade went on like that for quite a while, dancing interrupted on and off for various games -- such as bobbing for apples (the only time during the night some became unmasked) -- and various ways to get dancing partners to change (one whereupon a Professor held a bundle of multicolored strings, asking the girls to grasp a string at the bottom and the boys a string on the top, pairing whichever two grasped the same ribbon). Several of the devices used to pair off dancing partners went well, especially when Goyle was _somehow _paired with Crabbe (both of which were unable to miss, even masked), which resulted in quite a deal of laughter, mostly from the Gryffindors.  
  
Nearing the end of the ball, as it was beginning to reach midnight, the girls were once again given the option to choose partners. Although Harry was quite sure Ginny would be able to find him, he soon found himself being tugged onto the dance floor by a rather tall and forceful girl he didn't readily recognize. Only when he found himself dancing (with _her_ in the lead), did he recognize the blond hair of Pansy Parkinson. Casting a desperate look around, he found no chartreuse-clad, red-haired girl to rescue him -- _where had Ginny gone?_  
  
"I wouldn't usually dance with someone like you, _Potter_," Pansy sneered at him, only wearing a half-mask to hide half her dog-like face. "But, there's something I need to show you when this song's over."  
  
"Yeah?" Harry replied, anger coloring his tone. He suddenly felt very dirty, just knowing that he was holding her hand and had his other about her waist. "What do you have that I would _ever_ want to see?"  
  
Pansy sneered again, before replying, "It's not what _I_ have, but what Malfoy's _having_. And I'm only letting you in on it, because I'm sick. He bitches and insults, then goes for it at the _drop of a hat_. It's absolutely _disgusting _and you ought to know."  
  
_What in the world is she talking about?_ Harry wanted to scream, a look of sheer confusion playing upon his face from behind the mask in the shape of a lion. "What the hell is it, Pansy?" he finally demanded when she didn't come out and tell him then and there.  
  
"It's this way," she whispered as the cryptic skeletal music ended, grasping his hand in an iron fist and pulling him quickly off towards the exit of the Great Hall, around which many people were playing at being wallflowers -- including someone Harry recognized as Professor Lupin (due to the shabbiness of his robes), who he noted was conversing to a person not readily identifiable, shrouded in black and sporting leather pants.  
  
"_What_ is this way?" he demanded, becoming rather annoyed that the fruit of so much torment from the Slytherins was dragging him around like a rag-doll.  
  
"_Them_," Pansy hissed, sounding as if he were the densest person in the world for not already knowing. "I saw them sneak off together while everyone was distracted by his stupid minions sharing a dance. I followed them and . . . well, I thought you ought to know."  
  
_Ought to know what? _His mind demanded, though he was shushed suddenly from asking anymore questions as he was pulled in the general direction of the Slytherin's dungeon common room. However, he was halted abruptly in a dark corridor, barely lit by the torches sparsely lining the walls.  
  
"We're getting close. Just keep your mouth shut and _look_," she demanded, pulling him onward a little more, towards a corner which she readily peeked around once reaching it. After obviously finding what she intended, Pansy stepped back and motioned for Harry to take a look as well.  
  
As he peered around the stone corner, what he saw was such a shock to the senses that, at first, he thought he had come face to face with a Basilisk and died instantaneously. Instead, and to his absolute horror, he continued to breath and watch and _listen_ as the scene unfolded before his very eyes.  
  
Down the corridor, nestled in the corner, was Draco Malfoy, his back to the wall and his lips to the neck of a writhing redhead dressed in flowing chartreuse robes. One pallid, serpentine hand had snaked through the shimmering flow of scarlet tresses, while the other was obviously fumbling with something below his own midsection. Before long, the folds of jade velvet were pulled over milky thighs and the entire feminine form was hoisted into the air momentarily, her feet inches from the floor from that moment on, at which time moans of obvious pleasure poured from both.  
  
It was just enough to freeze his entire being, watching that scene. However, upon hearing the drawling accent of his most hated foe groaning out the name of the single most girl he had ever felt so much for . . . it was quite enough to drive him utterly mad, melting the ice that had formed over his heart in that one moment and sending a flare of passion through him that could rival with any volcanic eruption. Surging forward, the only thought flashing through his mind being to silence that icy, malicious voice from crying out her name.  
  
Yet, he went no where, only vaguely aware of the arms clamped around his, the surprisingly strong grip of Pansy Parkinson holding him back from doing everything in his power -- _killing_, even, it occurred to him -- to quiet Malfoy's terrible moans of ecstasy. As much as he struggled, as much as he fought, she simply would not let loose her hold on him, leaving bloody gouges in his skin from her lengthy nails and bruises on his upper arms from her manly grip.  
  
Then, he somehow noted that they had began to back away from the corner and the scene (though it kept playing again and again before his eyes), only the echoes of their actions reaching his ears, which were otherwise deafened to all other noise. Finally, when the last cries of velleity had died into quiet echoes, Harry came to find himself on the steps leading down to the dungeon, quite a distance away from the horrific scene. Slowly, Pansy allowed him to slip from her grasp, at which time he merely let himself slump to the stone floor.  
  
The very first thought that came to his mind was that he was about to become violently ill, surely about to vomit the contents of his stomach upon the cold, hard floor. Somehow, he refrained from doing so, but was no less inclined to rest his head on the aforementioned, ignoring the chill of it against his cheek. Heart and mind were racing, aching, questioning. _Why?_  
  
Hearing the steps of Pansy distance herself from his slumped form, Harry let out a sigh of relief -- not only was she revolted by what she had witnessed, but also so embarrassed that the single person she had clung to since their first year at Hogwarts had been doing that behind her back, she had no stomach or audacity to insult him over it. However, a part of him had wished she had . . . wished she had given him the excuse to use the wand his right hand was still tightly gripping from the surge of anguish and -- dare he think -- _insanity_ that had nearly driven him to kill Malfoy.  
  
It was quite some time before Harry managed to weakly push himself from the steps, feeling as if he actually _had _emptied the contents of his stomach from the trembling of the muscles in his arms. He could barely lift his head enough to push the mask from it, dumping the gilded accessory carelessly to the floor afterwards. Tears stung at his eyes after the initial shock had worn off, a great grief settling within him, along with the searing emotions of betrayal and contempt.  
  
Just days before, they had shared their very first kiss. Now, his lips felt tainted, as though hers had been laced with a poison which leisurely worked at killing him and had only, at that very moment of realization, succeeded. No longer sweet, innocent, and beautiful before his eyes, Harry saw her -- Virginia Weasley -- as something just above a common _whore_. Purity, which had been almost all that he had seen within her, had vanished and had been replaced by something he could only describe as filthy, immoral, adulterated _lust_; that which could only drive someone as her, as he had known her at least, into the grasp of a person such as Draco Malfoy.  
  
Thoughts swirled within his mind, causing his vision to swirl with them, until all that he saw before him was but a small amount of what had been before, speckled with black spots threatening to cloud his vision entirely. Struggling to stand against the sudden dizziness which kept him off-balance, he tread over his discarded mask while making haste for the nearest set of stairs. Voices rang clearly through the corridor, reaching his now fully receptive ears to alert him to the end of the Masquerade Ball and urge him further up the staircase. Instead of clawing his way back to the Gryffindor Tower, he merely took him wherever his unbalance and fogged senses could guide him.  
  
Eventually, Harry was dimly aware of being within the moonlit circular room of the Astronomy Tower, leaning against the cold stone wall as he attempted to sort his thoughts. Due to the holiday and the weekend, there were no classes at the hour, which roused but little happiness within him . . . at least his confusion and anger would go undisturbed.  
  
It was well into the morning before Harry finally fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with nightmares of what he had to bear witness to, the suspicions which preyed upon his thoughts, and the questions that echoed through his mind. At dawn, the sun shone so brightly through the many windows of the tower, he was forced to wake. It was Sunday and he had decided exactly what to do, as if his mind had countered the obscene dreams by planning while he slept.  
  
At once, he drew himself stiffly from the floor and, with whatever semblance of calm he could muster, began to move towards the dormitories.


	7. A Sprinkle of Love, A Spoonful of Hate

  
  


**--** Author's Note: With applying for college, applying for scholarships, applying for a job, and adjusting to my new semester schedule, I haven't had much time to spare for this writer's block that's been plaguing me. Finally, it's the weekend and _finally_ I can spare a few hours to sit down and work it all out. This will be my sixth -- or was it seventh? -- attempt to write this chapter and I'm praying to the Mother of all things sacred that I'll be more than satisfied with it this time, so I won't go off on a tangent of having writer's block and delete the entire thing. Er. With that said, I'd like to say thanks to Josh and Jude, for putting up with me even more so over the past few days due to my bitching. I swear, I'll get it this time and shut up. _  
  
  
  
  
For the first time in his life, Ron's feet had decided to work with him. They were overly large (to the point that he had outgrown every pair of shoes his mother had bought for him in the last six years) and usually very prone to tripping over themselves due to their size, which rivaled with all other sizes of feet in his family. However, for once, they cooperated in a way that made almost everything perfect. He didn't trip, or stumble, or get caught up, or tangled . . . or any of the usual things that generally made him feel like a complete idiot. And, best of all? _I didn't know you could dance so well_, she had told him, bringing him out of the daze in which he had fallen that was brought about by dancing with her. What could he say to that? _I didn't either_.  
  
Certainly, his feet wouldn't kill him, but his mouth would.  
  
Although he thought that she would find him more than simply a stupid prat, she laughed. Not just laughed, even, but giggled in the way he had heard Parvati and Lavender giggle over the cute boys in _Teen Witch_ every month -- just not so bloody annoying. In fact, he _liked_ the way she giggled like that, if the notion didn't sound insane. As she went on about how he was full of surprises -- being able to dance, pulling her chair out for her, and so on -- Ron simply drifted into a daze.  
  
In fact, he hardly noticed when the song ended and he was being tugged from the dance floor over to a table brimming with bowls of punch, pitchers of pumpkin juice, and bottles of butterbeer. Finally, after several blinks, he found himself firmly gripping a goblet of punch (which had ice cubes in the shape of bats and jack-o'-lanterns and changed colors sporadically) and seated at the table around which they had all dined earlier. Hermione was gazing intently at him from behind her mask, making him feel as if he needed to say something. "Huh?"  
  
"I asked if you liked the punch, but now I'm wondering if you're ill or something. Do you feel all right? You haven't said more than a two-word sentence since we left the dance floor. Did you not want to dance with me?" the last question was asked after a moment of lull, a tinge of disappointment and embarrassment coloring her nervously shrill tone.  
  
That was Hermione. Whenever she was nervous, there was no getting her to shut up. A person could sit there for a half an hour worth of questioning and not get a word in edgewise because she was too busy asking more questions on top of the ones she asked before. Ron remembered the first time he noticed how she did that, before their Sorting Ceremony, and how he thought it was the most annoying thing in the world -- even more annoying than Percy's jabbering on about how he was a Prefect all summer long. After a surprised blink (which did well to clear his mind of random thoughts), Ron quickly shook his head and replied, "_No_." But, then he thought that might have been confusing -- _no_ he didn't want to or _no_ he did? "I mean, er, I _did_ want to dance with you. And, I'm not sick. And, I do like the punch."  
  
The punch, it seemed, changed taste when it changed color and the ice bats within flapped their wings faintly while the jack-o'-lanterns glowed an opposite color of the liquid.  
  
"Reminds me of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans," she replied, apparently soothed by his sudden return to reality and the conversation, after making a disgusted face behind her mask. "Don't drink it when it's yellow -- tastes like earwax."  
  
"Ugh." He was about to ask what kind of joke it was to make a punch taste like earwax or _how_ she knew what earwax tasted like, but he was nipped on the lip by one of the ice bats while drinking the grape-flavored color. "_Ow_!" The bat released him and flopped back into the goblet of liquid with a faint screech and splash.  
  
Upon noticing the fact that the bats were more frisky that expected, Hermione pulled her goblet away from her lips and set it on the table, pushing it away quite a distance. "Maybe we should get some butterbeer?"  
  
"I'm not really that thirsty. I could get some for you, if you are, though," he offered without thinking, already on his feet (which were still being very cooperative) before he noticed she had shaken her head to decline the offer. "Well, we could get some dancing in before they start that party game stuff?"  
  
"To _this_ music?" Hermione inquired, her tone reflecting her conservative attitude towards the upbeat music the skeletal band was playing by that time. "I can't dance to that type of music."  
  
Ron secretly suspected that she only knew ballet and ballroom dancing, the first of which he had no idea about and the latter he could fake pretty well. But, with brothers like Fred and George, who wouldn't know how to dance to any other kind of music? They were insane, really, with the kind of dancing they knew . . . and their mother often complained whenever they knocked something over that required fixing. "Yeah, to _this_ music. Are you admitting that there's something you can't do, Hermione Granger? I'm going to have to send an owl to Rita Skeeter and this time tomorrow it'll be all over the Daily Prophet -- _Miss Know-it-all Hermione Granger Finally Admits There's Something She Doesn't Know_."  
  
Hermione gave an indignant short of huff, lifted her nose to the air, and crossed her arms over her chest. "It isn't that I don't know _how_, it's that I don't want to look like an idiot doing it."  
  
Her excuse was one of the worst he had ever heard and he felt even more inclined to tease her out onto the dance floor. "_Pfft_. You're wearing a _mask_. The only people who know it's you are the Gryffindors in our class. What do they care and what do you care _if_ they care?" Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed her hand and pulled her from the chair she was sitting in (which was rather easy, considering she was making some sort of verbal protest at the time). "Besides, what if it comes time for girls to pick dancing partners again and some dog-like Slytherin chooses me by mistake and I never make it back over here to dance with you again?"  
  
"That would be _such_ a tragedy, Ron," Hermione replied with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice, which was otherwise rather jovial. Hadn't she _not_ wanted to dance?  
  
  
  
No dog-like Slytherin chose to dance with Ron at all that night. Some girl, who claimed to be in Hufflepuff and sounded to be in one of the lower classes, stepped on his toes throughout an entire song, while Hermione chose to disappear off to the punch bowl. Other than that, the rest of the night was perfectly fine, blissfully unblemished by negative events, and was winding down when Ginny came and seated herself right next to Hermione, thoroughly interrupting their conversation. Which, annoyingly, had just turned rather _serious_.  
  
"I'm not sure why I feel -- oh, hello, Ginny," Hermione greeted, pushing away the topic of their conversation in a way that caused Ron to glare at his little sister . . . until he noticed she looked rather tearful behind her half-mask.  
  
"What's wrong? I didn't think Crabbe and Goyle dancing was _that_ bad," he made a vague motion with his overly lengthy arm towards the dance floor, where Crabbe and Goyle had been dancing moments before and Dumbledore was currently announcing another ladies' choice dance. _Wonderful_, he thought sarcastically, for a moment feeling rather upset that Ginny had chosen _that _point in time to plop her emotional self in the middle of his conversation with Hermione. It was only for a moment, where upon he felt terribly guilty for thinking it. But, _still_.  
  
"I can't find Harry _anywhere_," she mumbled, paying no attention to the fact that Crabbe and Goyle had stumbled off the dance floor hand-in-hand due to their own stupidity. "He just up and disappeared."  
  
Ron glanced over his shoulder towards the crowded dance floor -- which was packed with an assortment of participants ranging from thirteen to seventeen -- and noticed that there were so many wearing various shades of red that it would be impossible to tell if he had been dragged onto the dance floor by someone else. "Maybe he went to the restroom or something."  
  
"Or spilled punch on his robes. You know, those ice bats -- "  
  
" -- are melted," Ginny finished glumly, having been at the punch bowl herself to see the pathetic chunks of ice melt, screechingly, into the colorful liquid. "I guess I'm being silly worrying about it, though, huh?"  
  
Comforted by the fact that the bats melted, Ron moved to retrieve his goblet and punch and take a sip -- only to find that it was yellow and _did_ taste like earwax. "_Ugh_."  
  
"You are," Hermione reassured her in a rather soothing voice. "Don't worry about it. It's crowded in here with all these people, he just got separated in the uproar over Crabbe and Goyle. He should be back soon."  
  
  
  
_Be back soon_. Harry wasn't back _at all_ that night. Not for the remaning songs, not for the post-party party in the Gryffindor common room, not for _anything_. Colin had eventually offered to dance with Ginny, owing to the fact that Harry was missing in action, and after the last dance of the night she was nearly worried sick. Hermione and Ron had offered to stay in the common room until their friend showed up, but eventually wound up falling asleep on the sofa. If Harry _had_ been there, he hadn't bothered to wake his two best friends up and hadn't stayed until anyone else in the dormitory woke up.  
  
  
  
Sunday morning, Harry was found wide awake (though looking quite haggard) at the Gryffindor table having a breakfast of toast. Although harassed with questions, especially from Ginny, about his whereabouts that entire evening, he refused to answer and eventually left the Great Hall. His actions left most in a state of total confusion, though none more than Ginny. For the rest of the weekend, she stayed well within the boundaries of the sixth year girl's dormitory.  
  
  
  
Monday brought no end to the silence that had settled over Harry like an unearthly shroud. He said nothing, ate almost nothing, and did only what was asked or expected of him. If called on in class, he merely shrugged and in Care of Magical Creatures he positioned himself apart from everyone else to feed his Grilney shredded dragon intestines, sending Hagrid into the state of curious worrying with the rest of the Gryffindors. By the end of the day, his two friends were concocting a plan of action -- Ron would be his partner in Potions, which meant they _had_ to talk. It was his charge to force something out of Harry or, if not, wrestle him into a binding charm after class was over so he and Hermione could take him to the Hospital Wing. That was, of course, going to be a last-ditch effort.  
  
"_Potter_," Professor Snape spat from the chalkboard behind his desk, where he had just written the ingredients for the highly advanced potion -- a truth serum -- they would be brewing that day. "Come up to the front, here, and sit with Malfoy."  
  
It was unclear whether Malfoy had _requested_ to be partnered with Harry (as he did, certainly, look pleased at the announcement) or if Snape had stooped to a new level of disdain for Harry and partnered him with Malfoy out of sheer spite. Nevertheless, with his cauldron filled with his supplies and books, Harry did as he was told without a word and moved to the front, leaving a perplexed Hermione and angered Ron in the back of the room with the other Gryffindors.  
  
Draco sneered at Harry as he sat his cauldron on the table and began removing the various items from it. Once the class was bustling with the typical noise made by brewing preparations and he was already well into preparing the first portion of ingredients for his serum, Malfoy spoke up. "I'm glad you're my partner today, Potter," the drawling voice announced, though not loud enough to be overheard by the rest of the class. "I noticed you and Pansy getting a free show the other night."  
  
The first comment had caused Harry to grip the vial of dragon's blood he had in hand to the point of nearly bursting the glass, the second almost causing him to drop it to the dungeon floor. His new resolution -- to completely ignore what happened until he had further proof of what went on -- shattered almost as easily as the vial in hand would have if it had slipped from his grasp to the stone below. Yet, somehow, he found it within himself to make no reply and continue preparing his own ingredients.  
  
Malfoy was silent for some time, apparently wanting to begin the first stages of brewing the serum before bringing up the topic of conversation again. Having purposefully positioned his cauldron further down the table than usual from Harry, more or less to avoid splattering should anything be broken, Draco spoke again as he meticulously sliced at the bat wings that would be included in the potion during the final stage of brewing, "I was _almost_ sorry that Pansy brought you down there, Potter, but then I got to thinking about it and realized you _do_ have a right to know."  
  
Harry clenched his teeth to prevent any retort from flying in Malfoy's direction, concentrating on the work before him instead of the quietly uttered words seeping into his mind. They were a slow poison, too. _Just like her lips._  
  
"_I_ didn't want to do it," he claimed, letting out an almost silent sigh. "I mean, she _is_ a Weasley, after all, and I _do_ have a reputation to uphold." His words were steady, cold, and calculated precisely to push all the right buttons. "But, she practically _begged_ me. I'll spare you the details of what she did while she was on her hands and knees to convince me. I suppose even you can use your imagination."  
  
The knife used to slice the occamy intestines slipped from its course and sliced the side of Harry's left index finger open, spraying his own blood into that of the winged snake's entrails. "_Potter_," he heard Snape spit from over his shoulder. "Pay attention! I will _not_ be giving you another -- nor you, Longbottom -- so try not to butcher them. They're imported from India and unless you'd like to be paying the rest of your life for a new batch I suggest you _pay more attention_." The billowing of the Potion Master's black robes foretold that he had stalked away from leering over Harry's shoulder and moved to bark at another student.  
  
Dropping the knife, Harry fumbled for something to wrap around his finger in order to stop the bleeding, eventually settling for his robes for lack of anything better. The intestines were gathered and thrown into the bubbling, brown liquid in his cauldron, the pain in his finger momentarily distracting him from what Malfoy had said. "You're _lying_," he hissed, finally coming to his senses and pushing away the insane urge to keep his mouth shut.  
  
"Why would I lie about something so disgusting as _that_? Disgusting," he repeated, appearing to be rather amused, as he continued to slice at the wings, "but ultimately very worth my time."  
  
The knife used for slicing various ingredients was picked up from the wooden table and held in a tightly clenched fist, Harry's face coloring in anger and teeth gritting together to the point of agony.  
  
"Oh, _please_," Malfoy finally glanced up from the table, staring at Harry as if he were no more of a threat than a half-dead flobberworm. "If there's anyone you should be killing, it's _her_. After all, I'm not the one who _pleaded_ for it."  
  
  
  
By the time the class -- which seemed even longer than usual -- ended, Harry's truth serum was the wrong color, bubbling without the need of flame, and had the consistency of mashed potatoes. "Potter!" the vein on Snape's forehead bulged as his enraged voice echoed through the dungeon classroom. "Ten points from Gryffindor! You're almost as hopeless as Longbottom. At least _his_ was salvageable!"  
  
Laden with something as bad a detention (having to redo an assignment on his free time), Harry began to pack his things into his then empty and washed cauldron, not noticing that Malfoy was still off to his side, perched on the edge of the table and wearing a smug look. "Too bad, Potter. I was going to suggest you slip a bit of it into your girlfriend's drink. That's the only way you can be sure, isn't it?"  
  
With shaking hands, Harry gripped the handle of his cauldron and hauled it from the desk. "Sod off, Malfoy," he muttered, turning towards the door where Ron and Hermione were waiting for him. The last thing he wanted to do was to admit that Malfoy was _right_, which caused him to push the entire idea from his mind.  
  
Slipping from the edge of the table with ease, Draco moved to follow Harry, catching him before he took more than three steps towards the door. "Here, Potter. Think about it." Before a protest could be given, a vial of the freshly brewed truth serum was slipped into Harry's cauldron, after which Malfoy swiftly turned on his heel and stalked back to gather his things.  
  
"What the hell was that all about?" Ron questioned, giving a look to the cauldron Harry was carrying as they exited the dungeon, obviously thinking whatever Malfoy had placed into it might cause it and the supplies within to explode at any moment.  
  
"_Nothing_," Harry muttered, forgetting that he had not wanted to speak with anyone. With a surge of anger -- mostly at himself, actually -- he pulled away from his two friends and started off in a completely opposite direction.  
  
"Hey!" Ron called after him. "Don't forget Quidditch practice today!" He, apparently, forgot the plan about the binding charm, much to Hermione's chagrin.  
  



	8. Little Pink Flowers and Uninhibited Hot ...

  
  


   **--**   Author's Note:   Yes, another chapter. Go me. Either my plot nifflers are mating like bunnies or the Mother of all things sacred and holy took mercy on my poor, writer's block-ridden soul. It might be a little of both, considering I completely changed the plot from what I originally planned. ^__^; Anyway, thanks to everyone for reviewing and, again, to Josh and Jude for putting up with my whining and beta reading everything. Love you guys!  


  
  
  
  


_Quidditch practice . . . Quidditch practice_. That was how much Ron didn't _get it_. _Don't forget about Quidditch practice_. How could Harry forget about playing Quidditch with a Beater who begged Draco Malfoy for . . . for something he couldn't even imagine her doing? It was impossible for her to do something like that, but he had witnessed it with his own eyes. Draco Malfoy could lie about _anything_, but how could Harry be absolutely sure he wasn't gloating what something that actually happened?  
  
Harry stopped in mid-step upon realizing that Malfoy was right -- there was only _one_ way to be sure. Settling down upon one of the steps of the random staircase he had been ascending, Harry began to contemplate exactly how to go about it. Allowing his hand to drift to the pewter cauldron at his side, he felt around for the vial of truth serum, eventually removing the glass container of light purple, water-looking liquid and holding it in the palm of his hand. He hadn't paid enough attention to Professor Snape to know how much of the serum should be given, but he knew it wasn't anywhere near as powerful as Veritaserum. Still, as the idea was forming in his head, he began to estimate how much should be given and what the consequences would be. What was the harm?  
  
Lying was horrible, anyway, he concluded, apparently forgetting the number of lies he had told in his brief lifetime and what sort of cascading effect they would have if he suddenly went around telling everyone.  
  
Standing from the stair, he tucked the vial into his robes and picked up his cauldron, hurrying up to the Gryffindor common room as fast as he could.  
  
  
  
"What do you reckon's wrong with Harry?"  
  
"Reckon it's got something to do with Malfoy. Did you see them in Potions today?"  
  
"Looked like Harry was about to kill him, didn't it?"  
  
Dean and Seamus walked idly along the fourth floor corridor, talking between themselves, on their way to the nearest stairwell and the Great Hall several floors below for an early dinner. Even through the thick walls of stone, they could hear a storm raging outside. It was the storm which prompted the two avid Quidditch fans to stay inside, instead of out in the stands of the Pitch, where they could usually be found during a Gryffindor practice or any such game between school teams.  
  
"Wonder why Snape had him be Malfoy's partner, anyway. Didn't seem to help him with that serum, did it?" Dean inquired.  
  
Seamus gave a shrug. "Mine turned out all right. Even Neville's was okay. I wonder what's gotten into Harry, then? Even Snape's tormenting doesn't make him screw up that bad, mind."  
  
Dean appeared to be thinking as that dawned on him. "Still, all the pieces don't fit, do they? He disappears from the Masquerade Ball, doesn't show up all night in the tower, then stops talking to everyone, and then this Malfoy shit. What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Doesn't seem to mean anything, mate. Maybe he's just -- " but, as they reached the stairs to the entrance hall and started down them, Seamus was halted in his comments by the muffled voices of none other than Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Raising both eyebrows in question, he nodded towards the entrance to the dungeons. "Malfoy's goons. Maybe they know?"  
  
"What, follow them?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"What're you, _insane_?"  
  
"There's no law against going down there. If we get caught, we'll make up some story." Without waiting for Dean's answer, Seamus started down the steps towards the dungeon, following Crabbe, Goyle, and a very clear trail of used cupcake holders.  
  
It wasn't too long before the trail thinned out and stopped altogether and the two Gryffindors found Malfoy's brainless minions perched on a stone bench along the moldy corridor wall, talking and sharing what appeared to be a load of desserts from dinner. "D'ja hear?" Crabbe snickered through clenched teeth, spraying his companion with bits of saliva-soaked chocolate cupcake.  
  
"Nah, wha?" Goyle snickered, too, if only because Crabbe was snickering. Instead of spraying bits of food, however, he snorted and nearly choked on the piece of candy in his mouth.  
  
"Draco's plan worked." After swallowing the chocolate cupcake, he was almost understandable. "He got Potter to believe it."  
  
"Believe wha?" Goyle asked, his large, pink tongue intent on licking off the icing of a cupcake.  
  
Crabbe paused, thought, then finally replied (as if he had momentarily forgotten where he was and what he was talking about), "The thing with that Weasel girl. You know?"  
  
"Nah." Once the cupcake was free of icing, he stuffed it in his mouth, only afterwards realizing that the paper holder was still around the bottom and nearly choking again. He made no move to take the paper out, however, and simply swallowed it with the rest of the cupcake.  
  
Upset that he was, clearly, the more intelligent of the two, Crabbe reached out and smacked the back of Goyle's head (only serving to choke him more on the cupcake holder). "At the ball, right? He took Blaise down here and was . . . heh, heh, heh . . ." This time, he nudged Goyle in the ribs.  
  
Goyle started laughing like a complete idiot as well, though he didn't understand what his friend was talking about until Crabbe made some vague (but thoroughly vulgar) motions with his hands and fingers, mumbling some explanation. When understanding dawned on him (a very rare occurrence), Goyle began to laugh so hard and so stupidly he nearly fell off the bench.  
  
"Yeah. And, Potter came along and thought she was that Weasel girl." That, apparently, was the end of his rather idiotic explanation, because Crabbe went back to stuffing his face with assorted goodies, covering his lips and cheeks with various types of sugar.  
  
Dean looked at Seamus and Seamus looked right back at Dean. Then, before either of the two idiotic Slytherins could stuff themselves with another bite of dessert, both Gryffindors leapt from behind the corner they were eavesdropping from, wands drawn.  
  
"_Stupefy!_"  
  
  
  
By the time the team made it from the castle to the Quidditch Pitch, they were soaked to the bone by the icy November rain which fell from the sky in huge sheets, as if someone was throwing large buckets of water onto them from above. "You can go back to the castle, if you want!" Ron yelled over the rumble of thunder to Hermione, who had agreed to come and watch the practice (and perhaps take Harry to the Hospital Wing after).  
  
"I'm fine!" she yelled back as another explosion of thunder erupted, this time offset by a flash of lightning which electrified the expanse of the grounds, the thick storm clouds overhead having cast it into darkness hours before. Huddling beneath an umbrella, which was continually threatened to be blown away by the torrent of wind, with Ginny, she slowly made her way to the Pitch and through the doors leading to the locker room.  
  
Surprisingly, Harry was already there. It wasn't unusual for the team's Captain to show up early, but he looked as though he had been there for a while, if only because he was standing next to a table with seven mugs, boiling water, and packages of hot chocolate. "Thought we might need this before and after," he announced, sounding (though not looking) as if he were in a much better mood than earlier that day. Setting to mixing the hot chocolate for the team, Harry noticed after glancing up that Hermione was there. "Oh, Hermione, I didn't bring another mug. You want mine?"  
  
"That's fine, Harry. You'll need it more than me if you want to practice in this rain. I have an umbrella to keep be dry." Although flattered that he offered, Hermione was suspicious. She almost _always_ attended Gryffindor practices -- at least, anyway, since Ron had made Keeper and Harry became Captain. And, why was Harry so suddenly recovered from his bad mood that had lasted nearly two days? What had happened in Potions that caused him to speak again, anyway?  
  
"You can share mine," Ron offered, grinning and going a light shade of pink at the same time. Picking up a newly mixed mug of hot chocolate, he offered it to Hermione first and foremost. "I didn't get too wet, anyway."  
  
Noting that Ron looked like someone had thrown him into the lake, Hermione nevertheless took the mug and a sip of the hot chocolate. It tasted fine, didn't it? Well, she hadn't ever tasted hot chocolate with _that_ funny aftertaste, but it was better than what her mother usually made (since her mother could burn water without turning the stove on). "It's great, Harry," she noted, handing the mug to Ron. He, of course, gulped down the entire contents of the cup and went for more.  
  
"It's from a package," Harry shrugged, not out of modesty, though. He seemed a bit shifty to Hermione.  
  
"Why don't you have some, Harry?" she inquired, while the other teammates started in on their own cups. Except for Ginny. She was still upset over Harry's behavior and had stalked off to the locker room.  
  
Harry watched her go, then looked back to the team with a look of pure dismay on his face. "Huh? I'm ... I'm fine."  
  
"You're soaked, too. You might as well," she urged. "What's the point of making something for everyone and not drinking a little yourself?"  
  
Harry's brow knit in either extreme confusion or the state of being extremely torn between two things. After a lengthy moment, followed by a deep sigh of resignation, he picked up a cup and gulped down a large swig of the steaming hot chocolate. "All right, everyone. Let's get out there and practice."  
  
  
  
There _really_ was something strange about that hot chocolate, Hermione realized after watching the practice for several minutes. Her mind was filled with thoughts that would have otherwise been locked up and she was left with this insatiable urge to speak all of them aloud. In fact, she was sure that if someone else had been sitting next to her, she would have told them everything that came to her mind: how much she hated doing Potions work, how terribly _uninteresting_ History of Magic was, what she _really_ thought of Professor Trelawney, and even how incredibly cute Ron was trying to defend the goals in the pouring rain but only ending up looking like a lost puppy dog.  
  
There was something _really_ strange about that hot chocolate.  
  
It wasn't just her, either. The entire Gryffindor team was beginning to falter away from practicing and towards whatever they, apparently, felt like doing. Finally, Harry said it was time for a break (or, rather, it was time to get out of the rain, since they had only been practicing for ten minutes). Before long, they were all huddling within the Pitch away from the rain and Harry was offering everyone -- most especially Ginny -- the hot chocolate.  
  
"I don't want any hot chocolate," she said, obviously set on the fact that she wasn't going to take anything from Harry -- most especially his ill treatment of late. Turning her nose up, she strode a few feet down the corridor to lean against the wall.  
  
"Just drink the damn hot chocolate, Ginny!" Harry burst out suddenly.  
  
Ginny was taken aback by this, but Hermione finally understood. Harry had taken someone's truth serum and put it in the hot chocolate, which was why she felt like telling the entire world that Rita Skeeter was _really_ a bug and Ron was cutest when his ears were red. And, for some reason, he wanted Ginny to drink the serum and tell him _something_. Somehow, Hermione knew it wasn't some childish question that had been bugging him, either.  
  
"Why did you put truth serum in the hot chocolate, Harry?" Hermione demanded, having no reason to hold back her question. Or, at least, none that she could see. It was hard enough to hold back the fact that she wore white cotton underwear with little pink flowers and Parvati had gotten an electric blue thong from her sister, Padma, for Christmas last year.  
  
Harry's face turned white, then red, as he stared at her, looking much like a fish, opening and closing his mouth as no answer immediately came to him. Then, with much signs of inward struggle on his part (too bad the truth serum was working within him, as well), he burst out once more, "So Ginny will tell me the truth!"  
  
Ginny blinked at being accused of _lying_ about something, but Hermione, the ever curious, pressed on, "The truth about _what_?"  
  
"Whether or not she has sex with Draco Malfoy!"  
  
The series of events that happened after Harry's shouted statement was not easy to follow, at all. In fact, only _afterwards_ was Hermione able to figure out what happened. Ginny had screamed -- though from shock or disgust, no one could tell -- and nearly collapsed into a faint onto the other Beater for the team. The shower of blood which poured down Harry's robes came, undoubtedly, from the fact that Ron had lurched forward without restraint or care and punched him right in the nose. There was a sickening crunch and within seconds Ron was being pried away from a very bloody and disoriented Harry.  
  
Hermione simply stared through his whole series of events, the fact that Harry had accused _Virginia Weasley_ of having sex with _Draco Malfoy_ not fully settling properly within her mind for quite a bit of time. Finally, when Ron was fully restrained by the team's Chasers and Harry was on his feet holding his bloodied nose, Hermione was able to blink. "What _are _you talking about, Harry?"  
  
"I saw the two of them together during the Masquerade Ball! Pansy took me to the dungeon and showed me and there they were and he was calling her name and -- "  
  
" -- _That's_ enough!" Thinking he would go into more details, send Ginny into full catatonic shock, and Ron (who was lunging unsuccessfully against the three Chaser's arms) into a mad rage, Hermione held up her hand to silence Harry. "Was that what Malfoy was talking to you about today?"  
  
Harry looked like a little child who had been forced to stand in a room full of adults and talk about the 'bad thing' he had done. "Yes! He said that she had begged him and was on her hands and knees and -- "  
  
" -- _Harry_!" Hermione screamed, barely able to hear herself over Ron's frustrated and enraged yells and Ginny's swooning noises. "Whose bloody truth serum did you steal? They obviously put one too many drops of venom in it, because now it's not only a _truth_ serum, but an uninhibited one!"  
  
Ron stopped and blinked. Harry blinked also, finally lowering his hands from his nose (which made a whistling sound when he breathed). Ginny sat up and paid attention suddenly, as if no one had ever accused her of doing anything with Malfoy. "What?" almost everyone asked at once.  
  
Hermione felt like telling them off right then and there. Didn't _anyone_ pay attention in Potions anymore? After a groan of annoyance, she broke into a lengthy explanation. "The truth serum we brewed today in class is one that _only_ works when someone is asked a question. Like, if someone were to ask me right now what I thought of Ron, I would say that he's cutest when his ears are red and -- "  
  
" -- Hermione!" Ron interrupted, his cheeks, and ears, turning scarlet.  
  
"Well, anyway," she continued, blushing also. "It's difficult to make because three too many drops of the venom you add in the last stage of brewing can make it _uninhibited_." That would have been the conclusion of her explanation, had she not received to many confused looks from those gathered. " . . . It means you don't have to be asked any questions or one question will have you telling _everything_," Hermione added glumly, sounding almost _pained_ to inform them.  
  
Silence filled the room, the various Gryffindors (only three of which happened to know _what_ truth serum Hermione was talking about, herself included) thinking over the explanation in their heads and attempting to fill in the missing portions, completely forgetting the fact that Harry had just burst out with a _very_ disgusting accusation. After several minutes of working it out in her head, Ginny stood up from swooning against the other Beater and gave Harry a curious look. "I _didn't_ do anything with Malfoy, Harry. I was with Ron and Hermione the whole last part of the ball."  
  
"But, you didn't have any truth serum, Ginny!" Harry burst out, his voice wheezy and nasal from the fact that his nose was more than likely broken.  
  
It was one thing to claim that Malfoy had tricked Harry into believing that he had been doing something thoroughly disgusting with his sister. It was another thing entirely to claim that she was a _liar_. Ron pulled away from the Chasers and lunged at Harry, pushing him back against the double doors that led directly out onto the field.  
  
"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione called after him, running to the doors in time to see them both wrestling on the muddy ground that would have been the Quidditch field, had the rain not saturated it entirely. "Stop it!"  
  
During the random flashes of lightning the gathered Gryffindors could see the two best friends battling it out without the typical use of wands. Harry's glasses had become almost immediately askew to go with the blood running from both nostril, Ron's hair was discolored with mud and his right eye was beginning to swell with a bruise. It was more than just about Ginny, Hermione realized. It was pretty much six and a half years of _not_ lashing out at your best friend coming unhinged due to the insane serum. _Where_ did Harry get it, anyway?  
  
"Hermione!" Ginny called frantically from somewhere behind her, causing her to halt before jumping out into the fray to pull them both away from each other. Turning, Hermione saw what had sent her friend into a frantic state.  
  
Dean and Seamus had just entered the locker area, dragging Crabbe and Goyle with them in a very stupefied state.


	9. On Equally Soggy Ground

  
  


**--** Author's Note: It's pretty freaking short, but I felt the need to stretch the whole thing a little, instead of squishing it all into a chapter or two. Yes, I'm adding water to my plot milk. =P Anyway, thanks for the reviews and thanks (and much, much love) to Josh and Jude. Yes, they both know how Ron feels in this chapter, especially in reference to me. ^_^ And, by the way, the _Grilney_ mentioned in a previous chapter is the creation (and property) of my good friend, Scott (_xian shadmoore_).  
  
  
  
  
"Son of a bitch!" Ron's mud-caked knuckles once again made contact with Harry's face, the freezing rain which drenched them both numbing his hand to the point that he could barely feel the impact. If there was a time in his life that Ron had ever, truly, felt a single ounce of hatred for Harry Potter, it was at that precise moment. "You believed him!"   
  
The heated words -- _especially_ about his mother -- revived Harry with a passion and caused him to struggle beneath the knee that had him pinned between a torrent of punches and the mud. "I saw them!" he retorted. Though practically shaking with anger, he still managed to topple Ron backwards and onto the saturated ground. It was _his _turn.  
  
"_Liar_!" Ron roared over the thunder booming all around them and the crackle of lightning just about their heads, barely noticing anything beyond the face before him. He didn't notice the tides had turned, he was on his back, and that his own nose was bleeding. All he knew was that he needed to give Harry a good thrashing. All he knew is that Harry had insulted his baby sister. "You're a liar and you believed him!"  
  
Harry made no reply, as he was busy with something else entirely. Having let up from tackling Ron and pummeling him, his muddy hands were searching frantically inside his robes for something . . . _his wand_.  
  
There wasn't anything Ron could think of to yell at Harry -- _liar, back-stabber, bastard, traitor, idiot, prat_. What could you call someone who would be your best friend one day, but would insult your sister and hex you while you're down the next? _Nothing_. There was nothing to call him. There was only something to _do_. Springing up, Ron knocked the length of wood from Harry's filthy grasp with his left hand, sporting a fist with ghostly white knuckles as he drove his right hand into Harry's stomach.  
  
As Harry doubled over in pain, Ron had meant to carry on. He wanted to keep beating Harry forever. For being a prat, for being golden boy Harry Potter, for having the nerve to ask _him_ if he could dance with his sister then go and make her out to be some kind of . . . scarlet woman. And, not just _that_, but for also standing in the spotlight, being famous, being a hero, being on the Quidditch team since his first year, having the best broom in the world and a vault filled with gold. Everything he had once admired about Harry was suddenly fuel for his anger. It had all been pent up, locked away. All the jealousy, all the anger . . . it all rushed back to him, ten times painful and powerful than the first time he had ever felt the slightest prick of envy. Why did Harry have it all? Why was he just a pathetic _sidekick_? Somehow, seeing that the mud covered Harry's new robes just as they covered his own hand-me-downs made everything better. Somehow, knowing that Harry bled the same color blood, and just as easily, as he did made him less of the Boy Who Lived -- less of the famous Harry Potter and more of the regular guy who mumbled about Quidditch in his sleep. They were on the same level out in the soggy field, they were finally equals.  
  
But, something pulled him back. Something pried him away from pushing, kicking, or punching the already bruised and bleeding seventeen year-old any longer. He struggled with whatever it was, wishing with all his might that he could break free of the grasp and have another go with the boy who had beaten You-Know-Who so many times. It was an addiction, seeing his best friend's blood, seeing the fact that _Ronald Weasley_ could knock him down. "Let go!" he shouted after much struggling, feeling the grasp on him slip momentarily and allow him to inch forward. Through the blur caused by tears and rain, he saw figures in muted crimson and gold help Harry from the mud.  
  
"No!" came a shout, right in his ear, startling him to the point that he stopped struggling. It was Hermione. _Hermione_ was holding him back. _Why_?  
  
"What are you _doing_?" he demanded, tearing himself away from her as soon as he felt her grip on his arms relax. The effort was futile. His feet stopped cooperating, as there was no need to do so any longer, and sloshed in the mud, causing him to trip. Again, he felt momentarily restrained as Hermione reached out to grasp his hand and attempt to prevent his fall, but eventually the bitter taste of mud pushed through his lips.  
  
The slick, almost slimy, earth squished against one side of his face, onto which he had fallen after jerking away and tripping over his own feet. A moment passed before he realized that she had fallen in her effort to keep him upright, too, and was struggling to disentangle herself from him and the mud weighing heavily upon her robes. Forcing his hands into the muck, Ron pushed himself up and onto his knees (which sank at least half an inch into the soft ground) and squinted through the rain pelting his face to look at Hermione. She looked almost as dirty as he felt, like she had been in the fight, too. "Why'd you stop me?" he muttered, though another, less anger-muddled part of his brain yelled at him to ask if she was all right.  
  
"It was enough," she replied, resigning herself to the fact that she would _be_ dirty and sitting back upon the soggy ground. "It's not his fault."  
  
"You're defending him!" his anger flared again, not believing anything of what he was hearing. This was the girl that supposedly loved him, that would _die_ if he found out she did, that thought his ears were cute when they were red . . . and she was defending _Harry_. "How could you -- "  
  
"It's all Malfoy's fault," Hermione cut in, her voice rising to the same shrill tone it always did when she was upset. "Dean and Seamus -- " at the beginning of an explanation, she stopped. ". . . let's go inside. Everything will be explained."  
  
Ron simply stared, his eyes again filling with tears and making him thankful that his face was covered in mud and the rain was pelting him like tiny needles of ice. All he could do was stare. It was Malfoy's fault, but that didn't make anything _right_ or change the fact that Harry had called his sister a liar or had given them all some potion that was making them act _insane_.  
  
"I'm _sorry_, Ron," she looked pleadingly to him. The looked stabbed him right in the heart. There she was, trying to keep him from killing his best friend, drenched by the rain and splattered with mud . . . then she did that thing where she somehow made her eyes look big and tearful. Combined with a quivering lip and it was enough to make Ron willing to do anything. He would fight off He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and _all_ the Death Eaters in the world if it meant she wouldn't ever give him _that_ look.  
  
All at once, the ground was interesting. He groped around for the right words, eyes darting frantically from one patch of mud to the next as if someone had written what he was supposed to say just there. "I'm sorry, too, Hermione. I just ... I don't know what came over me."  
  
"I think I do," she replied after a moment of collecting herself. Without him having taken notice, Hermione had stood from the field and began to tug on his arm to help him stand. "And, if I'm right . . . we'd better get to the Hospital Wing."  
  
That struck Ron harder than any punch Harry had thrown. Stumbling again, though due to a strange weakness in his knees rather than his large feet, he clutched suddenly at Hermione to keep from falling. And, which was the cause of a feeling of extreme exultation, she gripped him back in a steadying manner, tugging his arm over his shoulders and wrapping her own around his torso. "Hermione," Ron sputtered through the rain and the shock of the numbness of his legs. "Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but I really hope you're _wrong_ for once."


	10. Etched in Glass

  
  


   **--**   Author's Note:   A chapter a day keeps the story-crazed readers from stringing K up and burning her alive! =) And, _yes_ Ron _does_ need anger management classes -- which is the reason (or, one of them, anyway) he had to fight Harry. To answer a very old question: you'll see just why Malfoy gave Harry the truth serum in this very chapter. ^__^ Also, I'm much inclined to agree . . . there's something_ very satisfying_ about Ron punching Harry, that thick git! Lol. Anyway, thanks to Josh and Jude and all those wonderful people reading my story. I feel loved and am very flattered by all these lovely reviews. Thanks a million!  


  
  
  
  


"What are _they_ doing here?" Ron inquired, though his voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper, while leaning heavily against the wall of the corridor which branched into the different areas of the locker room and led directly to the field from which he had just been dragged away from. His blue eyes -- barely recognizable behind the bruise around one and the blood dripping near the other from the cut at his eyebrow -- moved to rest upon the seemingly unconscious Crabbe and Goyle laying in a heap near Seamus's feet down the hallway.  
  
Hermione, though fairly curious as to _why_ Dean and Seamus would seemingly stupefy two students to drag them to the Quidditch Pitch, ignored the question and continued to tug at Ron in attempt to get him down the corridor and out of the building. "It doesn't _matter_, we _need _to get to the Hospital Wing." It was no longer a matter of _if_ she was right -- it was clear by Ron's appearance that she _was_ right.   
  
"It _does_ matter, Hermione!" Dean countered from down the hall, despite the fact that he looked rather confused over Harry and Ron's appearances. The evidence he and Seamus had to present was far more important than the two Quidditch players being patched up by fussy Madam Pomfrey after a rough practice. "We followed them into the dungeons and heard them talking and we _think_ we know what's wrong with Harry!"  
  
"All we have to do is wake them up and have them tell him!" Seamus shouted, pulling out his wand and pointing it smack between Goyle's eyebrows (though, there was barely a space there at all, considering the aforementioned had nearly grown together).  
  
The youngest Chaser -- Natalie McDonald, Hermione noted -- spoke up with a scoff, neither afraid to speak her mind, nor intimidated by being surrounded by students years ahead of her (and a rather confusing turn of events). "They _won't_ tell anyone anything! They're Malfoy's _guard dogs_. I mean, I don't think they're honestly _that_ intelligent, but they _are_ loyal and I don't want to be caught in the middle of an Unforgivable Curse when you try to pry their fat lips open about whatever it is!"  
  
Dean and Seamus looked almost scandalized, before they realized that she was right. They would flab about anything they wanted in the safety of the dungeons, but it would take a Cruciatus Curse to get Crabbe and Goyle to say _anything _about Malfoy in the presence of ten Gryffindors.  
  
"We could give him some of this truth serum?" Harry suggested, looking terribly much like an overly abused stray dog as he leaned heavily against the other two Chasers. Strangely, all three of them looked ill -- Harry was drenched in blood, sweat, tears, rain, and mud, while the Chasers were looking almost deathly pale.  
  
"No!" Hermione burst out at the notion, though was unable to tear herself away from Ron in time to prevent the next series of events or force her fellow house-mates to understand. In no time, Harry had pointed out the chilling hot chocolate on the table, Dean had cast _ennervate_ on both of them, and Seamus had grabbed two of the remaining cups and poured their contents down Crabbe and Goyle's throats. There were no protests in the room, save those of Hermione, as the two Slytherins would have enjoyed eating _anything_ in the world, so long as it had a taste of chocolate to it. Hermione's objections, of course, were ignored, the Gryffindors having grown used to her disapproving of even the slightest breaking of rules.  
  
"Now," Seamus crouched by Crabbe, who had been the one to recount most of the story anyway, pointing his wand as he large, piggy face. "Let's have that story again, shall we? The one about Draco's plan."  
  
  
  
"We made the distraction, Draco and Blaise skived off, and Pansy went to find Potter," Crabbed finished, having been slow to recount the tale due to his own ignorance and the pounding of his overly large head in the aftermath to the stunning spell. "That's it, though. That's all I know. It was Draco and _Blaise_, not Weasley. Draco wanted Potter to think it was her when it wasn't."  
  
Witht he story they had partially heard recounted in full, Dean and Seamus looked eagerly around at those gathered, eyes darting back and forth to gauge reactions.  
  
Ron had since seemingly fallen asleep, though every once and a while he'd grunt to show that he was listening, just with his eyes closed. The story didn't phase him for some reason -- either, he had been expecting as much or suddenly didn't _care_. His sister, on the other hand, looked as if she had just seen some manner of ghost: pale and horrified. For Harry, there was nothing to do but slide his way down the wall he was by that time leaning on (having nearly crushed the Chasers with his light weight) to the floor and break down in a torrent of quiet, yet anguished sobs. No one, however, moved to comfort him.  
  
"That's not all," Goyle broke the silence, though his voice sounded oddly distant from his prone position on the floor, either too lazy or too stupid to sit up, pay attention, and wipe the dribbled hot chocolate from his cheek.  
  
Seamus immediately turned his attention to Crabbe's companion, pointing the tip of his wand right at Goyle's nose. "What else, then? Go on!"  
  
Goyle struggled for some time, more than simply scared at the wand aimed at his face. Clearly, being stunned by two Gryffindors had taken almost all the fight and bravado out of him. "I . . . I heard Draco and Blaise this morning. He was upset that Potter hadn't done anything -- accused Weasley or something -- so he said he wanted to make sure something happened. He said . . . he wanted to make Potter suffer."  
  
A blanket of silence settled over the crowded hallway, which was littered with used cups, patches of mud, pools of rain water, and two Slytherins. No one could work that clue into the jigsaw puzzle of the situation -- Draco hadn't done anything . . . _yet_, had he? After the silence had began to pound in the ears of the confused, Harry suddenly let out a loud yell. Under normal circumstances, Hermione would have scolded him for his use of filthy language, but instead she looked triumphant (if not pale and withered) and rushed forward to the table. "I knew it!"  
  
"Knew what?" Natalie, who was the only person in the room who had taken the smallest bit of pity on Harry, questioned quietly after tearing her eyes away from her Quidditch Captain.  
  
Various items were moved around on the table, the previously boiling water inspected, the empty and full packages of hot chocolate poked at, until at last Hermione discovered what she was looking for. "_This_," she replied, turning back to those assembled. In her hand, held up for all to see in the dim light of the torches lining the walls, was a small vial, a purple liquid pooling in the bottom.  
  
"The truth serum?" someone asked.  
  
Hermione's expression turned annoyed and concerned at the same time. "No, it isn't a truth serum. At first, I thought it was, just brewed incorrectly. That was, until, Ron and Harry started . . . " she paused, trailing off to prevent to use of the word _fighting_. After a brief shake of her head, Hermione continued undaunted. "I knew that an uninhibited truth serum made a person willing to _speak _anything that popped into their mind without questioning, but it doesn't cause a person to _do _anything that comes to their mind."  
  
Another bout of silence came over the other nine Gryffindors and two Slytherins (though Hermione honestly didn't expect _them_ to understand a single thing), before Harry finally raised his tear-streaked face from his hands. "It isn't a truth serum, then," he spoke, his own voice hoarse, but dripping and quivering with the emotions welling within him. "I should have known!" Yet, his anger was not enough to overcome the shame he felt (doubled -- _tripled_ by the new evidence) and he went back to burying his face in his hands once again.  
  
"You _should_ have," Hermione agreed, though not in her usual snappish tone. "Don't ever trust anything Draco Malfoy gives you, Harry. Or, at least not without looking at everyone else's potions first." Reaching into her robes, she removed a similar vial from her inner pocket -- it was filled with a thick, _blue_ substance, as opposed to the thin, purple one. It was her truth serum, brewed to such perfection that Snape had taken points off.  
  
There was a muttered protest from Crabbe, "You don't know Potter got that from Draco, _mudblood_."  
  
Although the use of the name Malfoy had coined for Hermione since their second year at Hogwarts _did_ rouse some other emotion from the Gryffindors aside from confusion or bleak understanding, none but Dean and Seamus moved to take action (though, Ron's eyes had opened and he had attempted to come forward, before stumbling) . . . before Hermione stopped them. "Actually, I _do_ know that Harry obtained this from Malfoy," she said, a smug look shining through her features, which were just as pale as nearly everyone else's in the room.  
  
Holding up the nearly empty vial in the light, she turned it slowly until the opposite side showed. There, in elegantly scripted letters, were the initials _D.L.M._ etched into the glass. "There's only a handful of people at this school who would bother personalizing _potions_ equipment . . . and only one of them has a name which matches these initials."


	11. Privy to a Wonderful Secret

  
  


   **-- **Author's Note: I've loved working on this story a lot and, though I'm sad to see it end so soon, it _is_ coming to a close. I think I'll be able to get about two chapters and an epilogue out of this, before I'm taken out back and shot for desecrating poor old Billy's work or dragging a plot out too long and through too much muck. That, and I'd really like to get started on my Valentine's Day fanfictions (yes, more than one – I _hope_) and the other serious Harry Potter chapter fic I have in mind. This time, I promise, it won't be a recycled idea (I _hope_, again), but one from my own pure – or, partially pure, that is – brain. Hopefully, these last few chapters and epilogue will make up for the lack of fluff and humor from the past several chapters. That, of course, wasn't my fault . . . blame it on the Slytherins . . . or Shakespeare. ^__^;  
  
   **--** Dedication: To Scott, my personal cheerleader. w00t.  
  
  
  
  
Although all the evidence Dean and Seamus had to present was important, Ron found himself nearly falling asleep while it was presented. There was something about a plan on Draco's part, something else about Blaise being a part of it, then another bit about Harry being tricked by the two aforementioned. _It wasn't, Ginny, then, _his mind came to the conclusion slowly, _It was Blaise and Draco and Harry was mistaken. I'll still kill him for calling Ginny a liar, but I can understand him being tricked like that._ The words being spoken by Crabbe and Goyle reached his brain even slower than those uttered by everyone else in the dimly lit corridor – the two were slow with their speech as it was and as it traveled through the rain-scented air, it apparently slowed even more-so. He recognized elongated voices through the lull of sleep that was settling over him – Seamus demanding, Harry yelling, then Hermione shouting something in triumph.  
  
It was important, he knew, so he attempted to force himself to focus. Surely enough, the words being spoken began to return to their normal volume and speed (though not without a great deal of concentration on his part). " – Or, at least not without looking at everyone else's potions first," Hermione said in a solemn voice, Ron noting with surprise that she had since moved away from him and was holding up two vials that appeared to contain potions. Whether they were the same potion or not, he was unable to tell. It seemed someone had lowered the lighting in the room until he could only make out what was five feet in front of him, everything beyond falling into deep shadow.  
  
"You don't know Potter got that from Draco, _mudblood_," Crabbe managed to work up his courage to say, though unable to sound anywhere near as eloquent or malicious as Malfoy did whenever he spoke the same word of insult.  
  
That was enough to drive Ron _mad_. Crabbe was easily the most unintelligent student in the seventh year class and he had managed to work up the nerve to speak something so disgustingly insulting. There weren't enough words – surely not enough _swear words_ – to describe the anger that boiled inside him. Despite the sudden darkness of the room, despite the black spots that loomed in his vision and threatened to block it out entirely, despite the pain in his legs and the fire in his chest . . . Ron stepped forward from the wall and began to fumble with mud-caked hands within the folds of his robe for his wand. There wasn't a single day that went by since he was twelve years old that he had let someone insult Hermione. Even when he wasn't speaking with Harry and she had not taken sides, even when he wasn't speaking with _her_, he had never let an insult about her come to his ears without doing something in attempt to make sure it never happened again. He had belched slugs for an hour for her, he had taken Snape's worst detention, and he had been ready for years to do it all over again. No amount of numbness or blackness would stop him, either. If someone had insulted him, he might have let it slide due to his current state of exhaustion, but it was _Hermione_. It was the girl who loved him, who didn't want him to know for fear of embarrassment . . . it was the girl _he loved_. And, he would not let something as disgusting and idiotic as Vincent Crabbe insult her. _Ever_.  
  
Steeling himself against the pain in his legs, the flames burning in his chest and lungs making it difficult to breathe, and the dizziness causing his head to swim, Ron took a confident step forward. Darkened shapes that had loomed just beyond the light came into focus with this action, taking the forms of the Gryffindors he had been unable to see since he came in from the field and the Slytherins he had only been able to imagine since the fleeting glimpse he had captured whenever they were first brought in. He stumbled, but nevertheless continued forward along the wall, the length of sleek wood removed from the innermost pocket of his Quidditch uniform.  
  
It seemed odd to him that no one else felt the slightest bit of insult over the term Crabbe had used – only Dean and Seamus seemed to have moved and Hermione hadn't, apparently, batted an eye. Was it only his imagination that the slur had been uttered? _No_, he said to himself firmly, _he said it and he will not say it again_.  
  
But, the world was moving quickly around him . . . or he was moving too slowly within it. Not even three steps were taken after the stumble before he caught snippets of the continued conversation from a still triumphant Hermione. "Actually . . . Harry . . . from Malfoy," she announced in a way that caused Ron to falter. Although she was standing just two feet away, she sounded to be at the end of a long tunnel, bits and pieces of her speech losing portions as it was yelled. " . . . personalizing _potions_ . . . only one . . . matches these initials . . . "  
  
The opportunity had passed and the determination that had welled within him melted away dramatically. Confusion filled his mind as the entire corridor around him began to dim and whirl in an unnerving way. Although his fingers had been clasped tightly about the shaft of polished wood in his dominant hand, too soon the familiar clatter against the stone at his feet foretold that the wand had been dropped. It was strange how the words of someone so close could be missed, while the soft sound of something falling six feet below his ears could be picked up so clearly. Too soon, however, it became painful to think – there was a metal spike boring its way through his skull and into the soft, gray matter of his brain – and the only option open to him was to follow his wand to the cold, damp floor.  
   
  
  
  
"Will he be all right, Madam Pomfrey?" the voice was distant and weak, though not due to the blanket that had fallen over his head previously, but simply because the one speaking _was _distant and weak. "I feel so terrible about everything, I should have brought him here right away."  
  
There was a tinkling of glass against glass, then a rhythmic clink of metal periodically tapping against something. Before long, a disgusting taste was upon his tongue, filling him with revulsion and sick; it was green, no doubt, for it had the consistency of slim and the smell of mildew. "He'll be fine when he gets some rest, and you could do with a rest, too, Miss Granger. I'll not have you making yourself worse off by staying up morning, noon, and night to ask me questions about Mister Weasley." Unmistakably, Poppy Pomfrey scolded none other than Hermione – who was, to Ron's joy, asking about him – as she forced a medicinal potion down his throat, then went about tucking his the rough hospital blanket up around his chin. "Into bed with you, now. I thought you were more responsible than this?"  
  
After nearly seven years, almost every adult in the castle was able to make a single statement to a student to obtain their cooperation – with Hermione, it was questioning her responsibility, and with Ron, it was questioning his ability to do something. Madam Pomfrey had been able to obtain almost everyone's cooperation since their second year, though it was no doubt easier with the three Gryffindors who were in the Hospital Wing more often than most of the other students in their class combined. Thus, she had gone to work on forcing cooperation out of the Professors and was currently making progress with Professor Snape by forcing vitamins down his throat every other Friday during Double Potions with the Slytherins by questioning his vast knowledge of potions and his need for them. It was amusing to watch, actually, though Snape would take off anywhere from five to fifty points from Gryffindor if anyone was found to be laughing.  
  
"Of course I'm responsible, Madam Pomfrey, but I'm also worried about Ron!" Hermione exclaimed in a rather offended tone, but was quickly shushed by a sharp _sh!_ from the medi-witch.  
  
"Miss Granger, you'll have plenty of time to check on your boyfriend when he's awake and you're both fully recovered. Now, please drink your potion and _try_ to get some sleep, before I detain you further until I'm sure you're quite well and resting properly!" Poppy said exasperatedly.  
  
That was also something Madam Pomfrey had taken to doing for years – calling Ron Hermione's boyfriend or Hermione Ron's girlfriend. It had been annoying at first, actually, but Ron could see how someone could easily make that mistake. After all, they _were_ very close friends. He had taken to correcting Poppy, though Hermione usually just stammered something and left the room muttering about how staff shouldn't make assumptions. For some reason, Pomfrey just hadn't let up about it, however, and had continued referring to them as a couple since Hermione had been petrified in their second year.  
  
This time, Hermione made no sound of protest and did not begin muttering. "If he wakes up while I'm asleep, will you tell me?" Poppy gave no reply, but the air almost seemed heavier and she was no doubt making an annoyed face. "All right, would you tell him that I'm sorry?" Hermione attempted again, her tone almost pleading.  
  
"And what else, Miss Granger?" Madam Pomfrey asked with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. "That you love him, too? I'm _not _your messenger service. Now, drink your potion and get on with your recovering, for there's plenty of time afterwards to be courting -- though, mind you, it isn't to be done in _my _infirmary."  
  
Although the slimy potion he had just been given muddled his mind, Ron could not help but grin quite broadly. He had no idea why he was in the Hospital Wing being looked after by an irritable witch with a horrible bedside manner or why he was being given disgusting potions or why Hermione was worried and apologetic. None of that mattered, actually, because Hermione had neither given protest to him being called her boyfriend nor made a sound to deny that she would _mind_ too terribly if Madam Pomfrey would deliver the message of love. Whatever remnants were left of the flames in his lungs or the spike boring into his skull faded into the background as a feeling of absolute joy washed over him. _She loves me, then. I know it. And, as soon I can, I'll tell her that I love –_  
  
"Ron!" Hermione whispered sharply from somewhere to his left, drawing him back from his joyous reverie in time to hear Madam Pomfrey's footsteps fading in the distance. He could just imagine the face that went with Hermione's tone – brow furrowed with worry, lips pursed with anger, and eyes filled with the exact same emotion he was feeling. Even though he couldn't see her at that moment, he had subconsciously made an effort to memorize every line and feature of her face and needed only his imagination to picture her in his mind. She really was beautiful, especially when she was angry.  
  
His throat was dry, however, which made it extremely hard to speak in reply and his eyelids were so heavy he could barely flutter them, let alone force them both open. It was easier, then, to simply continue grinning, having been made privy to the most wonderful secret in the world.  
  
"Are you _awake_?" she demanded, voice laden with an odd mixture of annoyance and delight.  
  
_She really is beautiful when she's angry_, he thought and thus continued to grin.  
  
  
  
  
The week slipped by at such a lethargic pace that it seemed months before Ron could open his eyes, sit up right in bed, move his legs, and eventually stand to begin walking around the Hospital Wing bit by bit. By the time Friday arrived, he felt as if he had spent an entire year under the stern care of Madam Pomfrey and was quite ready to follow the rest of the Gryffindors out of the stuffy area, as they had been allowed to leave periodically throughout the week. Hermione had been able to leave _Wednesday_, but had spent every afternoon (until Pomfrey had to throw her out) in the Hospital Wing making sure Ron was well and doing his work. She had also cleared up quite a deal of confusion.  
  
  
_"It was an alihotsy draft," she explained, taking a very small break from the homework she was assisting him with, though only after heavy persuasion. "Malfoy had given it to Harry and told him it was a truth serum – since he hadn't brewed his properly, Harry assumed that it was and intended to give it to Ginny to find out the truth about what he saw and what Malfoy insisted happened."  
  
"What did Draco say happened?" Ron inquired, snapping his History of Magic text book closed so sharply Pomfrey gave him a stern look from across the room.  
  
Yet, Hermione declined to answer, shaking her head slowly as she went on, "Malfoy assumed Harry would put the draft in Ginny's drink, but he decided to sacrifice potency by putting it in the water for the hot chocolate. It diluted the draft and was split between nine people, so it wasn't as potent as Malfoy intended."  
  
" . . . How potent was it supposed to be?"  
  
"It . . . " Hermione trailed off, her expression pained. "Whatever you went through, amplify it by ten. If Ginny had drank the entire draft, she would have passed out,  lost all motor functions, and would have awakened with a fever strong enough to cause insanity." After speaking, she quieted to the point that it didn't even sound like she was _breathing_, while biting anxiously at her lower lip._  
  
_Ron was taken completely by surprise by this news, stunned speechless for some time. Finally, he managed to whisper, "What happened to Malfoy?"  
  
"Professor Snape tried to blame it all on Harry – he said that he had stolen the draft from the potion's storeroom Sunday evening and replaced it Monday afternoon before giving it to everyone, since Harry had stolen things before. But, I gave Headmaster Dumbledore the vial with the rest of the draft in it; it had Malfoy's initials on it and Professor Snape couldn't ignore the evidence. Harry admitted giving it to us, but only because he thought it was truth serum, so Dumbledore went easy on him and gave him a single detention," Hermione paused in her explanation, glancing lingeringly towards the book open on her lap.  
  
"Malfoy?" Ron asked through clenched teeth.  
  
"He . . . he tried to lie about it, but Dumbledore had enough evidence against him. I expect that Dumbledore might have expelled him, but he gives everyone a second chance, doesn't he?" She paused, her eyes darting back and forth across the open book, though it was clear that none of the words written there were being read. After a moment of silence, a look of pleasure swept over her facial features and caused her to grin broadly as she finally looked up. "He's got so much detention he won't be able to complete it before graduation, even if he had a time turner."  
  
He gaped at her. "Is that . . . is that it? That's it? He came so close to killing – "  
  
" – . . . He also got his Head Boy badge taken away."_  
  
  
Just remembering those words brought a smile to Ron's face. Although it wasn't quite good enough for him _– _as he would have preferred Malfoy to be expelled _–_ it proved to be satisfactory enough to cause him to grin. Finally, Malfoy had been unsaddled from that annoyingly high horse.  
  
"Are you ready?" rang a familiar voice, Hermione having crept upon him while he was in his reverie. "You're going to miss dinner. I'm sure you want something _real_ to eat after all those food-substitution potions."  
  
Glancing up from buttoning the white dress shirt of his school uniform, Ron offered her a grin. "Have you ever known me to miss dinner, Hermione? As if an alihotsy draft would keep me away from something like _that_."  
  
"It kept you away for a few days," she noted, moving over to straighten his tie out of compulsive habit. It had been something she had taken to doing since their fifth year _–_ his tie was never straight enough for her, but unlike previous occasions, Ron enjoyed the attention this time around and made a mental note to always keep his tie disheveled.  
  
"It's about time I get back to it, then, isn't it? I need to get my strength, too. There's Hogsmeade tomorrow." After shrugging on his black (and slightly frayed) robe imprinted with the crest of Gryffindor, he tugged at his tie with a grin. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he was compelled to reach down and take her hand in his own.  
  
"That's right. And, now that we're all recovered, we've decided to have a picnic at _–_ " she stopped short, eyes flickering down to his hand holding her own.  
  
It was brilliant. Simply brilliant. It was the very first time he had been able to shut her up without a single word. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, too, as if he had done it every single day since they had met. Or, he _should have_. " _– _I thought we were both quicker than Pomfrey, Hermione. How is it that she had us pegged since second year, but we only just figured it out now?"  
  
From the look on her face, Hermione was simply stunned, unable to speak for perhaps the first time in her life. Instead, she lifted her gaze from their entwined hands and looked up at him.  
  
"Not that it matters how long it took," he smiled down at her, not only surprised at what he was finding himself saying (though he _had_ promised he would), but also at the fact that she wasn't protesting against any of it. "I'm just upset that an old bat like her knew before _I_ did _–_ it's shameful."


	12. Writing a Shackspeerian Sonnet

  
  


   ––   Author's Note:   This chapter was a little longer than I expected, but hopefully not quite so _boring_. I apologize for the delay in this chapter – I had to spend a week working on my college applications (which was thankfully _done_) and then I was suffering from severe writer's block (or, rather, _the spots_, as I'm told ^_^). But, it's finally up. And, as I discovered while rewriting after unhappy with the initial chapter twelve, and rewriting again after losing the chapter in a computer crash, it's much longer than I expected, meaning there will be _one more chapter_ before the epilogue and end. As always, thanks to everyone who has reviewed – that is, after all, a writer's fuel – and to those who beta read my stories and put up with my doubting myself into deeper writer's block.  
  


  
  
  
  
  


It was settled; Ronald Weasley was a love struck fool and Hermione Granger was the girl he was going to pour his heart out to in the form of – . . . poetry?  
  
  
Some strange sort of feeling had seized him during dinner that night, brought on by the subsequent actions following his entrance, with Hermione, into the Great Hall. Although he had gotten over his fear of _cooties_ before he had ever set foot on the grounds of Hogwarts, as soon as the reached the doors to the overly large and ornate dining hall, he had dropped her hand as if it were contaminated. And, though his actions in and of themselves astonished him, it was not so surprising as the fact that she had let go of his hand, willingly, almost the exact moment he had released hers and there was no issue of conversation about it whatsoever. It was not, apparently, an issue – but a mutual _fear_.  
  
Madam Pomfrey, who would not look at a _healthy_ person with a concerned eye even if her own life depended on it, had seen the emotions that Ron had failed to realize for many years, meaning his feelings were more than thoroughly _obvious_. There was no doubt in his mind that the people he had lived with for over six years had picked up on them, as well. Hell, Harry had gone so far as to tell Dean and Seamus about _Hermione's_ feelings, one could only assume that he would not stop at discussing the matters of Ron's heart. Though, if he did so regularly, there must be a serious lack of conversation topics.  
  
And, honestly, it wasn't so much the fact that everyone under the sun had apparently known his feelings for Hermione before him, but the fact that they were all terribly childish about things of that sort. There were few people – save for Neville Longbottom, perhaps – that knew it was simply suicide to go around announcing just about anything about your life, for there was a serious lack of students who could pass a person in the hallway without making a comment, good or bad, about whatever important matter was currently going on. It made no difference if it was private matter or not once it got out.  
  
Though, Ron _had_ survived the torments of belching up slugs and asking Fleur to the Yule Ball, so he seriously doubted that he wouldn't be able to take whatever taunts and teases the immature student body chose to fling at him once the news of his newfound relationship had gotten out. The only problem with that was the fact that gossip at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry spread like wildfire – magically inhanced and all-consuming wildfire that continued to spread while being doused with water and dirt and flame-retardant chemicals and spells. Thus, had they continued to hold hands while entering the Great Hall Friday evening, there was not a single doubt in his mind that by the time classes began anew on Monday morning, it would be rumored that he and Hermione were eloping after graduation due to the fact that she was carrying his love child.  
  
. . . Which, as a matter of fact, wasn't wholly such a bad thought, considering the actions that would have to take place before she could end up carrying said child.  
  
Thus – after pulling himself from the subsequent, and quite pleasing, fantasy which followed _that_ particular course of thought – Ron concluded that his actions, as well has hers, had nothing whatsoever to do with their respective feelings, simply apprehension towards being gossiped about. And, she had told him this herself _after_ dinner, while he walked her to her dormitory – in a very cliché manner, perhaps, but at least he obtained the very cliché goodnight kiss.  
  
And that, of course, was worthy of another reverie.  
  
  
Though, Ron admitted, finding himself sometime after dinner had passed and the moon had risen steadily through the night's sky, he had absolutely no idea how embarrassment, apprehension, and a _kiss_ got him into his current mood. Not to say the kiss wasn't absolutely _heavenly_, despite how chaste and at the corner of his lips it might have been placed, but that had nothing whatsoever to do with his sudden inspiration – though it was quite uninspiring at the same time – to _write_ Hermione something. _Poetry_, no less. He could hear Fred and George's mocking laughter ringing in his ears and Ginny's squeals of absolute delight at his spontaneous romantic side, which had apparently sprouted overnight.  
  
Having seated himself in the large window sill of the seventh year boy's dormitory, Ron tilted his head against the chilled panes of glass, eyes flickering between the early November evening outside, the parchment resting upon his knees, then the quill in his hand, and the sleeping friends across the circular room. Neville's snoring and Dean's muttering about foots-ball – or whatever that insane sport was called – _were not_ helping him write anything at all. Eventually, heaving a deep sigh, he cast his gaze towards Harry's bed, the curtains pulled back, which was as perfectly made as it had been in the middle of the morning when one of the house-elves assigned to Gryffindor Tower had snuck in to smooth the sheets. Ron, apparently, wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping – and couldn't everyone's problems be blamed on _love_?   
  
There was no use guessing _where_ Harry was or _what_ he was doing, as Ron had missed him at dinner – having intended to apologize for beating the 'holy bloody hell' out of him (as Seamus eloquently put it) – and went searching for him afterwards in the common room, only to find him in a very unlikely place. Hermione soothed him away from pummeling the holy bloody hell out of Harry again, by convincing him that Harry and Ginny needed 'time to sort things outs on their own.' Therefore, he proceeded to walk Hermione to the seventh year girl's dormitory (as she asked, apparently to persuade him from being overly protective of his little sister) and left Harry and Ginny to their whispered conversation, hand-holding, and tears in one of the dimly lit areas of the common room. At least he was apologizing for everything he had done – and to Ginny first and foremost.  
  
Which, after he thought about it, was _fine_ by him – so long as Harry returned at a decent hour without Ginny's light pink lipstick smeared all over his face from snogging as it had been weeks before. Not only would he be upset that Harry had been snogging his sister, but also that Harry had been snogging at all, while he was left to be content with a small kiss and the impossible urge to write Hermione a _poem_. _A poem_, of all bloody things!  
  
Finally, after turning everything over in his mind once more – and griping internally about how Harry might be in the common room having a good 'make up' snog with _his baby sister_! – Ron forced his attention back to the blank parchment, which was slightly wrinkled, atop his raised knees. Dipping the tip of the quill in hand within the inky confines of the bottle at his side, he raised the writing impliment to the parchment . . .  
  
And sighed.  
  
"I could just put _I love you_ all over the paper. Muggles do weird things like that, she'd like it," Ron mumbled to himself, recalling the pieces of Muggle artwork and poetry his dad had showed him. One git painted cans of soup over and over, while another didn't even bother using proper spelling or anything in his poems. But, having had the rhyming poetry beaten into his head by his mother, who absolutely adored the works of some old Muggle (Shack Speer?), and what little poetry he had bothered, or been forced, to read, Ron struggled with the concept until he finally allowed his head to drop to the side and onto the glass of the window with a dull thud . . . again.  
  
"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, never knowing that something as simple as poetry could be so hard. It was especially difficult to _know_ what he wanted to say, but to be simply lost on how to express it through rhyme. "I'm a _man_, damn it," Ron cursed again, not at all sure what he meant by the statement. Perhaps that he was man enough to play Quidditch, survive Snape, be the best friend of the Boy Who Lived, and come nearly unscathed from every insane event of his life . . . but was unable to write _poetry_? Of course, he didn't think that poetry had gender barriers – as he had read far more poetry (of the three or four poems he had actually read or heard) from men than women – and failed to understand why it didn't come pouring suddenly from his brain. "I bet that Muggle guy never had _this_ much trouble."  
  
Biting his lip, Ron finally found something to start with and pressed the tip of the quill to the rough, but wrinkled, parchment. Still, he had his wand in hand and a handy erasing charm in mind.  
  
_The beauty of the sun . . ._  
  
  
  
The hours until dawn – which came and went without the crowing of a rooster (or noises from a ghoul) unlike at the Burrow – passed so quickly he hardly noticed the time until the door to the dormitory slowly slid open and Harry slipped inside, apparently intent on not waking anyone.  
  
"Hey, Harry," Ron said in a nonchalant tone that he not only startled Harry, but also himself, once he glanced up from the parchment brimming with ink.  
  
Harry nearly jumped a mile and a half, pressing himself against the curved wall of the dormitory and holding his chest like he was five times his age, suffering from heart failure. "Ron! Don't _do_ that!"  
  
It was so amusing, however, that Ron reminded himself to do it again at the next available opportunity. "Where've you been, young man? You're roommates and I were worried sick about you all night!" he countered, mockingly, towards Harry, giving a motion to the soundly snoring boys who shared the room with them.  
  
"I was, er, talking to Ginny," Harry replied, moving cautiously away from the door as if Ron would tackle and pummel the daylights out of him again. "I apologized."  
  
For the first time that entire week – though it might have been induced by writing a poem for half the night and the strong emotions it roused within him – Ron genuinely felt _sorry_ for Harry, especially when he looked tired, down-trodden, weary, and in fear of his very life. "What did she say?"  
  
It seemed Ron threw curve-balls when deprived of sleep, as Harry looked startled for the second time. "She was angry, but she understood and accepted my apology," he answered slowly, not bothering to hide the relief and happiness in his voice. "Hey, what're you doing up, anyway?"  
  
Glancing to his watch, Ron noticed that it was a quarter to seven o'clock in the morning, as indicated by the single hand of his watch nearly coming to rest upon the _Time for Breakfast!_ message, which was there in place of the number twelve. "It's nearly seven," he stated, momentarily forgetting the fact that almost _everyone_ slept in on the weekends until at least nine o'clock."Besides, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about – " Almost about to tell Harry that he had been up all right writing Hermione a sonnet of _love_, Ron abruptly stopped himself, remembering that Harry had yet to apologize to anyone else aside from his sister.  
  
That _should_ have been good enough. Or, if not that, the look of dejection upon Harry's face, which was still as equally bruised as his own, if not moreso. But, it seemed that nothing truly ever changed – although he _knew_ how Harry felt, it was gratifying to hear an apology. Ron, of course, intended to apologize about what he had done, but not until Harry admitted openly to _him_ that he had been wrong, too.  
  
"Hey, Ron?" Harry said after a moment of silence between them, moving over to settle against the wall next to the window sill in a casual manner by which it seemed that nothing had come between them since that horrible incident involving the Triwizard Tournament. "You know I'm sorry about what happened, don't you? You're my best friend and all and I know I went a little crazy – "  
  
" – Love makes everyone go crazy, Harry," Ron interrupted him, pulling the parchment away so his friend didn't notice what was written there. He hadn't expected himself to interrupt the apology, though, as he received so very few and enjoyed relishing in them, especially not to make a statement about Harry and _Ginny_ being in _love_. Yet, he went on, unable to stop himself from reassuring his friend. "It's true. It does. _Trust me_. And, Harry? I'm sorry I hit you."  
  
"I know," Harry replied readily, though whether to the first statement or the apology, Ron was unsure. Then, for a moment, Harry appeared to be on the verge of saying something, but simply closed his mouth and leaned over to clasp his hand upon Ron's shoulder, grinning in the broad way Fred and George usually did when they were up to no good. "Are you saying you don't mind me going out with your sister, then?" he prompted after unsuccessfully attempting to glance at the writing upon the parchment in Ron's possession.  
  
"It bugs me a little, you know. All the times we've sat around looking at girls – now I know you're looking at my _sister_ like that." Ron shuddered suddenly, recalling a conversation from the year before in which Harry brought up the topic of ... well, something he didn't want to think about _Harry_ applying to his _sister_. "But, I think I'll get over it and as long as you treat her the way she deserves to be treated, I don't think I'll find an excuse to beat the hell out of you."  
  
"Works for me." Grinning, Harry went back to leaning against the wall next to the window sill, a far-off look in his eyes – undoubtedly due to the fact that Ron had brought up previous girl-oogling conversations and he was picturing Ginny in a certain way that would have caused Ron to punch him in the nose if he were privy to Harry's thoughts. "Anyway, we'd better get ready. I promised Ginny we'd all meet her, Hermione, and a few others in the common room at eight."  
  
"For what?" Ron inquired, yawning for the first time since the evening before. After a blink, he moved his hand idly through his flamingly colored hair, ruffling it out of place, then attempting to flatten it. "Hermione said something about doing something today, but I forget what it was."  
  
"A _picnic_. All the girls have been working together devising some picnic out past Hogsmeade, but I think it's going to rain – it's _November_, after all."  
  
Glancing out the window, Ron noticed the gathering storm clouds with a wave of relief washing over him. The last thing he wanted was to go all the way out to Hogsmeade, sit on the soggy ground, and get sick from some bloody picnic in the November. "It's raining already," he noted as a large droplet of water hit the window.  
  
"Ginny'll be upset, but I told her all the younger students will be at some Junior Dueling Club meeting and a lot of the others will be at Hogsmeade anyway, so we could just stay in and carry on."  
  
" – In the true Gryffindor style, I hope?" Ron inquired, grinning broadly. The _Gryffindor Style_ of partying had been created by none other than his twin brothers, Fred and George, and was something the Gryffindors thoroughly enjoyed at least once a month, always in attempt to live up to _the_ largest party ever held in Gryffindor Tower – the party the twins held their last year at Hogwarts.  
  
"Too right, mate. What's a party if it's not a _Gryffindor_ party? We might have to hold off the _real_ carrying on to later tonight, but . . . the girls want a celebration." Harry looked vaguely confused and Ron shared his thoughts. _What the hell do you celebrate about getting into a huge mess of Malfoy's plans and poisoned and nearly detention enough to warrant staying in school another two years?_  
  
But, if there was one thing above all else he had learned at Hogwarts in his nearly seven years, being placed in the same house as girls like Hermione, Parvati, or Lavender, it was that women were strange creatures that men, no matter how far and wide they study, will always fail to understand.  
  
"Right, well, Fred and George passed on to us the right to carry on as best fits Gryffindor, so that's what we'll have to do," Ron inched from the window sill and stretched the stiffness from his lengthy limbs.  
  
"And carry on we will."


	13. Six Magical Words and the Golden Snitch ...

  


–– Author's Note: This is the end, my friends, and I'm sure we all know that everything works out just fine. ^_^ Hopefully my next story – which I'm starting today! – will contain a vastly larger amount of angst and suspense and drama and all that good stuff that I'm being urged to write. And, shockingly, it won't be about Ron and Hermione. – Yes, a shameless plug. _ Anyway, thanks to everyone, again, who reviewed and supported me – I love you guys. =)  
  
  
  
  
As was usual for the autumn and early winter – and, actually, most of any other season in Britain – it rained unrelentingly, with little care of what petty plans the female students of Gryffindor had planned for the Saturday morning and afternoon. And, due to this, it was up to the Boy Who Lived and his faithful friend, Ronald Weasley, to head daringly out and arrange a wonderful party in the common room – which, compared to defeating the Dark Lord on numerous occasions, was easily done, but nevertheless a heroic feat worthy of much praise and admiration when they returned with news of Professor McGonagall being busy with a Junior Dueling Club tournament and armfuls of sweets and butterbeer.  
  
The carrying on – which started out quite mildly enough, considering Ginny and Parvati were sulking over their ruined plans – went on from late in the morning until late in the afternoon, when it began to wind down (before winding up again, after dinner) until the younger students, who were notorious for ruining _good_ parties, were in bed.  
  
  
"So, Ron," Ginny had settled onto the sofa next to him, grinning broadly first at her brother, then to Hermione (who was sitting in an overstuffed armchair close by).  
  
"Huh?" he yawned, staring dazedly up at the ceiling – the lack of sleep had finally caught up with him and he was beginning to doze lightly despite the music from the Wizard's Wireless and the chatter of some fourth year students who had just returned from Hogsmeade to find the remnants of a party going on.  
  
"I was just wondering . . . " she began, trailing off in the manner she usually did before coming out with something absolutely embarrassing. He could just hear it in her tone. " . . . when you and Hermione are going to finally come out with it."  
  
This piqued Hermione's attention, as she had been reading a book, _somehow_, during the winding down commotion. "Out with _what_, Virginia?" she asked in a flaringly defiant manner, over top the giggles and snickers from onlookers.  
  
Ron felt his cheeks burning that hated color of red, knowing too well that his ears were turning the same color. "We want to hear a confession of _love_!" Parvati burst in, settling upon the arm of the sofa near Ginny. "This is just driving us mad. You love him and he loves you, so if you don't stop hiding it, we're just going to have to hold you down, give you some _real_ truth serum, and wait for a confession!" Ginny, of course, gave Parvati a sharp jab in the ribs at her cheek, but did not stop grinning.  
  
This caught Ron off guard and, he noticed, it did the same for Hermione, as she flustered – as she typically did when groping for a lie – for some time before snapping, "I suppose your crystal ball told you this, Parvati? What rubbish!"  
  
It was too late and just as bad as Ron had feared the night before. Almost on cue, the group of fourth year students burst into gleeful giggles and began whispering among themselves – no doubt about how Hermione had been secretly dating Viktor Krum _years_ after their brief relationship and there was some sort a love triangle between him, her, and the aforementioned Bulgarian git. "Come off it, Ginny!" Ron raised his head from the back of the sofa, shooting her and Parvati a glare. "This is _not _some sort of thing like from those romance novels you read."  
  
At having the fact that she read _romance novels_ mentioned aloud to the crowded common room, Ginny went a deep shade of scarlet. "You can't deny it, Ron," she countered with a grin (attempting to seem unfazed by the announcement of her pastime), which made Ron wonder if he _dared_ to challenge her about it – she could have very well had evidence that would contradict anything he claimed.  
  
Hermione, however, was not about to go down without a fight, as she did not know Ginny quite so well as Ron did, and shot up from her chair with a sound of absolute annoyance. "Firstly, Virginia Weasley, it is _no one's_ business _if_ Ron and I have feelings for each other – " a glare was shot towards the group of fourth year students who began to giggle madly, " – which we don't! Secondly, _if_ we did, we wouldn't announce it to the entire common room for what attention we could get from it. And, third, – "  
  
But, Ginny interrupted the heated tirade, a grin still plastered upon her face. "You _do_ love him!"  
  
"I don't!"  
  
Upon seeing how absolutely adamant about it Hermione was, Ron was forced from his seat upon the sofa, not even pausing to think before he asked, "You _don't_?" To, of course, a chorus of giggles.  
  
Flustering, again, beneath the questioning, Hermione's face began to turn a shade as equally bright as his own. "Well ... um ... "  
  
"Do you love _her_?" Parvati took the opportunity to interrupt, pleased with the fact that Hermione was tripping over her own words and denials, obviously hoping to do the same to Ron. It was insanity, really.  
  
"What is this, anyway? Why should I – "  
  
"_Do you_?"  
  
"No!" Ron burst out, if only to counter Hermione's claims with an outrageous one of his own. Perhaps she would feel the same unbelievably painful stab to her heart that _he_ had when she denied her feelings for him. Or, hopefully she did, because he felt even worse claiming something that was completely untrue.  
  
If Hermione had felt something akin to pain, she expertly hid it as she finally recovered from Ron's question. "There! You see? We don't. We're just friends." And, at that, she reached out, took Ron's hand, and shook it firmly, which left him in a curious sort of daze.  
  
"Enough of this," Harry finally entered the argument – _much_ to Ron's surprise, as he never thought that Harry would be the slightest bit interested as to whether or not his two best friends were anything more than friends at all – and crossed the common room over to Ron. "I'll prove it that he loves her!" he shouted, getting a reply in the form of cheers, causing Ron's heart to shrink (as he had _hoped_ Harry would put an end to the sudden insanity which had swept over the room), wrestling a hand within Ron's pocket to obtain the folded piece of parchment he had been writing on all night and early morning. "A _poem_, for Hermione, written by Ron, containing deep professions of his love for her!"  
  
If there was one moment in his entire life when Ron wanted to crawl into the deepest, darkest hole in the world and await death, it was at that moment. His face, and ears, felt warm enough to burst and were undoubtedly such a deep shade of crimson they were clashing terribly with his hair. Although he tried his best to grab the parchment back, _Hermione_ had already snatched it from Harry's hand and moved off a few feet to begin unfolding it.  
  
"And, here!" Lavender announced, bounding down the stairs with a book in her hand, the title (_101 Magical Ways to Ensure Love_) flashing in the golden light of the common room, and skipping happily until she reached Parvati and Ginny.  
  
Taking the book, Ginny flipped through the pages quickly, eventually finding an unwrinkled piece of parchment littered with Hermione's elegant handwriting. "A letter, in which Hermione confesses the depth of her love – and _passion_ – for Ron!" Ginny announced to the audience of students in the common room, over top the shrieks of protest from the letter's author.  
  
As one good turn deserves another, Ron leapt forward and snatched the letter from where it had been placed between two pages (_Love Potions are Forbidden, but Love Cookies are Delicious_ and _A Six-Step Charm for Unruly Hair_). At once, he glued his eyes to the letter before him, reading over what was written – which he found much more elegant and poetic than his attempt at poetry – and nearly falling over from shock. When Ginny said passion, she really meant it. "Er," Hermione, who had finished reading the poem, attempted to point out and correct something on the page, but Ron pulled it away from her with a grin and continued reading.  
  
"That settles it, then," he announced to the silence which had settled over the common room once he had finished reading the letter, gingerly folding the parchment over twice and tucking it away in his pocket. "We can't deny something that's been put in writing." . . . That was a rule or something, he knew, or at least _hoped_.  
  
Hermione, who had gone back to reading the poem again – and genuinely looked _touched_ (more touched, he noted with a large amount of self-satisfaction, than she had ever looked over Krum's letters) – folded up the already wrinkled parchment and placed it within the inner pocket of her robes. "You're right, Ron," she announced with a sigh – the first time, perhaps, she had noted that he was _right_ about something . . . and, really, the only time he thought actually _cared_.  
  
"I am?" he asked in disbelief, if only to hear her repeat those three magical words again.  
  
Yet, instead, she said three different words, even more magical than the three he had intended to hear from her. "I love you."  
  
And, dimly, he realized that he was supposed to say something to her in return, but found himself only able to look down at her and within the depths of her beautiful eyes. Momentarily, Ron thought to ask _You do?_ as he had asked, disbelieving, for repeated reassurance over his being correct, but realized that she _did_ – and, thus, he would be hearing that particular statement much more. "I love you," he countered, unable to keep the broad grin from his face.  
  
As if the entire display was the Quidditch World Cup and the favored team had just caught the Golden Snitch, the crowded Gryffindor common room burst out with echoing cheers. The cheering – which was quite an odd thing to happen, Ron thought – only reached him as a quiet hum, a shadow of the roar it actually was, as he was far to busy embracing and giving Hermione quite the cliché kiss – which was very unlike that which he received the night before – having no idea that the two of them had just been forced into playing out the perfect ending to the most perfect, and classic, story of romance in existence.


	14. All's Well That Ends Well, an Epilogue

  
  


**All's Well That Ends Well**  


  
  


Arthur Weasley rummaged through the shed in which he kept all of his Muggle things, some of which happened to be illegally charmed, shifting whosits and whazits around to find exactly what Hermione had inquired after. "Is this it?" he questioned, holding up a geometric tube filled with blue water.  
  
"That's a lava lamp, Mister Weasley," Hermione replied mildly, hiding the amusement in her voice and expression. "I'm looking for a television and video cassette recorder. They're both _much_ larger than that."  
  
"Tellie-whazit," Arthur mumbled to himself, setting the 'lava lamp' down (while wondering why it wasn't scorchingly hot as the name suggested) and shifting boxes around in the shed to move further into the back. "What's it look like?" he called, kicking away a bewitched mousetrap which attempted readily to bite at his feet.  
  
Standing on her toes and holding her wand – which was casting forth light like a beacon – Hermione attempted to see further back in the shed, which was bewitched to have much more inner space than outward appearances foretold, in order to help Mister Weasley locate the two items she needed. "The television's shaped like a box with a glass front. The video cassette recorder is smaller and rectangular, without any glass. Both have knobs and buttons and cords with plugs."  
  
"Plugs!" Arthur shouted with glee. "You know I just found a charm that makes it possible to use all these ecleptic Muggle devices _without_ plugs and batteries? Isn't that wonderful?"  
  
"Yes, Mister Weasley, it is. We can watch this video, then, since there aren't any plugs at the Burrow or batteries enough for the television," Hermione commented, then placed a hand over her mouth to keep herself from giggling at the older Wizard as he rummaged through the boxes and talked at great length about how fascinating it was that Muggles got along without magic.  
  
Finally, after what seemed like at least _hours_ and twenty different objects ("No, Mister Weasley, that's a fish tank") later, Arthur let out a triumphant sound and held up a dusty, yet usable, video cassette recorder. "This is it, I'm sure of it. It says _V.C.R._ on the front – video cay-set record, you said? Here it is. And here's that telewhazit, too."  
  
"Thank you, Mister Weasley," Hermione replied, shifting between mountains of boxes to take the rectangular object from him, so he could pick up the small, but sufficient, television, and turned to carefully exit the dusty shed, ridden with gnomes and bewitched mouse traps.  
  
  
  
Several hours later, once the Muggle equipment was properly connected to one another and charmed to run without electricity, Hermione called up the stairs to where everyone was gathered in Fred and George's room (in which they were demonstrating the newest line of novelty item), announcing the show was about to begin. Many pairs of feet thundered down the rickety staircase of the Burrow, until the majority of the Gryffindor Graduating Class of 1998 – minus one Neville Longbottom and including Ginny Weasley and Colin Creevey – arrived in the spacious living room of the Weasley home.  
  
"I didn't know the Muggles made a production out of the play," Parvati commented, settling onto the sofa before which the television was positioned. There was little use in hiding the fact that they had obtained the idea of playing Match Maker from a Shakespearean play Parvati had seen, as Hermione had come back from Winter Holiday boasting an insanely thick volume of text (_The Complete Works of Shakespeare_) and commenting on how she could have been so stupid as to miss such an obvious ploy. Not to say that it didn't _work_, that is.  
  
"Muggles love Shakespeare," Hermione commented, removing the video cassette from its cardboard case and placing it gingerly into the slot at the front of the elderly VCR – which appeared to be nearly as old as she was.  
  
Ginny, having retreated momentarily into the kitchen, came back with three large bowls brimming with popcorn balanced precariously in her harms, looking much relieved when Seamus snatched one readily from her. "I haven't read much of Shakespeare, though mum _adores_ him."  
  
"I've read a few of his sonnets," Ron commented, grabbing a bowl from his sister and plopping onto the carpeted floor to begin munching on the buttered and salted popcorn. This, of course, brought a round of snickers and giggles down upon him.  
  
"_The beauty of the sun pales in comparison to that of you. With skin so fair and lips so _– "  
  
"Ginny!" he snapped, almost choking on the handful of popcorn that had been recently stuffed into his mouth.  
  
Immediately, the younger of the two siblings silenced herself, but more-so at the fact that the television had come to life and was currently showing brief clips of other movies. "Weird! It's like the theater, but stuffed into a box! Hermione, how'd they get all those people in there? They didn't use a shrinking charm, did they?"  
  
Hermione, having already explained this to Mister Weasley, closed her eyes as if to shut out the absolutely insane question – as well as her own urge to burst into a fit of laughter. "I'll explain it later, Ginny," she managed to say, without snickering (as Seamus, Dean, and Harry were trying not to), as the _Feature Presentation_ notification flashed across the screen.  
  
  
  
Two hours and some odd minutes later – after Benedick commented Don Pedro needed a wife, then commanded dancing prior to his (and Count Claudio's) wedding, which led into a beautiful scene and eventually into the ending credits – the entire living room was in silence.  
  
"I think – what's his name? Keanu Reeves – is _much_ better looking than Draco Malfoy," Lavender commented, finally, after processing the entire movie.  
  
"I don't get what they were _talking_ about!" Seamus looked completely confused, having somehow managed to go through the entire movie without asking a single question about the dialogue.  
  
Parvati, who looked thoughtful, eventually commented, "There was a lot of major differences in their plot and ours. I mean, Claudio _didn't_ go out and try to sneakily get Hero to admit anything – he just came out with it on their wedding day."  
  
"I don't think Harry could have _waited_ until his wedding day."  
  
"And Beatrice wasn't reading _101 Magical Ways to Ensure Love_," Ginny added after Dean's comment, grinning towards Hermione.  
  
Hermione felt her face go quite red.. "You know, I explained about that book. It wasn't _anything_ like the title sounds – "  
  
"So, you actually read it?"  
  
"Since when _doesn't_ Hermione read every book she comes across?" Lavender grinned.  
  
" – and it has nothing to do with love potions or love charms or anything _magical_ to _induce_ love. It's just magical ways to make love grow stronger – romantic ideas, romantic food recipes," she continued, unfazed by the comments being flung her way, as she had suffered through their jibes about the book in question since November.  
  
"But, you didn't return it to the library, did you, Hermione? That's going to be the blemish on your record that prevents you from becoming the next Minister of Magic, you know," Parvati commented, again, about the book not being returned to the Hogwarts library.  
  
Standing to press the 'rewind' button on the VCR, Hermione attempted to push away thoughts of scratching Parvati's eyes out – she was quite annoying, after all. "I told you this, too. I took it back to Madam Pince and she said she didn't that sort of rubbish in her library – as she was doing away with the leisure reading section – and told me I could keep it, since I was so interested in it that I kept it past the return date."  
  
Ginny blinked, as she had heard the story many times before, but only then realized that the book had to be _somewhere_ and she had not noticed Hermione packing it away their last day at Hogwarts. "Wait. So, where is it?"  
  
Ron, after watching the conversation progress in silence, heaved a sigh at the question. "_I_ have it," he admitted, his ears burning a light shade of pink at the giggle received from Lavender. "It's, apparently, fuel for my spontaneous, Shackspeerian sonnet writing." This, of course, was grumbled. He hadn't _asked_ for the book, but he had received it for Christmas from Hermione as a subtle suggestion that he should concentrate less on Quidditch (especially in the off-season) and more on candlelight, roses, and romance. Harry had nearly fallen off his seat with laughter when he snatched the gift's card away and read it.  
  
Before another comment could be uttered, a call from out in the garden, where several tables had been set up for dinner, came to announce that the aforementioned meal was almost ready. Thus, the group rose and stretched from sitting in a solitary position for overly two hours, then began the small walk out into the overgrown, gnome-ridden garden of the Burrow.  
  
Once in the garden, under the dying light of the early July evening, the various Gryffidors – or, rather, mostly Gryffindor alumni – settled into seats around the connected tables. Before delving into the meal, however, there came a rather serious inquiry came from Harry.  
  
"Was it just me, or did that guy look a lot like Professor Lockhart?"


End file.
